


Not Entirely With Modest Means (Or With Any Honourable Intentions At All)

by Minya_Mari



Series: Not Entirely With Modest Means (Or With Any Honourable Intentions At All) [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aegon really is a brat, And Sansa, And even less about his sister-that-isn't, Arya does as she likes, But one should expect this, Headaches & Migraines, It's tumblr's, Jon Snow knows nothing, Kinda, Mainly for poor Gendry, Multi, Not My Fault, Probably tree!Bran, Rickon is the biggest little shit one will ever encounter, Sansa can't make heads or tails of the situtation, She's pretty good at talking people into shit they wouldn't normally do, Though Arya really isn't much better, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Well - Freeform, lots of death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:53:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minya_Mari/pseuds/Minya_Mari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The bastard did not seem to realise that she was planning her escape, and Cat couldn't help that twinge of regret at the thought of head-butting such a pretty face. It was quite short-lived.' Cat meets a not-quite-stranger from her past, finds the new king to be a pompous prick, and thinks on her similar fate to her long-dead aunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Quite Who You Think

They were searching for her avidly. A girl had only just snuck into the brothel in time to hide with Lanna in the back rooms as the soldiers garbed in gold rushed in.

"What is it they want with you, Cat?" the blonde girl asked softly.

Cat shook her head, the dark curls that now reached past her shoulders swaying at the movement. "I do not know," she lied easily. "They have been following me about all day!"

She thought back to the tall man with eyes that brought back memories that weren't hers, but belonged to a girl she once knew. What was that man doing _here_ , of all places?

Lanna considered her friend's words, but kept quiet as golden knights strode past, her grass-green eyes following them as they trotted about like horses with purpose.

Cat held her breath as they did, and prayed to The Stranger that the men did not notice her. The black-haired man with the blue eyes had not accompanied them, and so they did not know exactly what Cat looked like; they did not pay her any mind as they brushed past her and back to where they'd came.

When all of them were gone, Cat snuck away from the blonde whore and followed the golden little shits that had tracked her from Pentos.

Perhaps a part of her wished to leave Baavos, to go to the place that Arya Stark was born. But Cat preferred it where she had a freedom to do as she wished, could duel a man to defend her _own_ honour; not have to have another man do it for her.

Cat shook her head, _When has that ever happened to me? I am an orphan of Braavos, The Cat of The Canals, First Sword of Braavos; nothing more and nothing less than that_. At least that was what she was telling herself as she was spotted by the black-haired man with the bull's helm from her youth.

"Arya?"

Cat froze behind the men as they turned to face her, the blade in her hand had been poised to strike; but he had ruined it. She slid it deftly back into its sheath.

His voice boomed now, and the name he called her by, she had not heard in nigh on five years. Give or take a year, Cat had never been very good with time.

"That is the Lady Arya?" one of the men questioned; a gruff old thing, with wrinkles covering his stern-looking face.

Cat bit back a retort that would have been second-nature to a girl named Arya Stark, and instead offered a polite smile. " _I do not speak_ ," she started in Braavosi, then paused as if thinking, " _Westerosi, is it_? _I cannot speak that tongue_."

The old man frowned. " _It is a name, little girl. Lady Arya, have you heard of her_?" he asked in the same tongue, voice rough from age.

Cat skipped backwards, a sly smile on her face. " _No, old man_ ," she answered lightly. " _I've not ever heard of a Lady by that name. But the Merling Queen is a lady, though Arya is not her name_."

The black-haired Bull made an impatient noise and stomped towards her. Cat did not so much as blink.

"You are Arya! You look just like her," he argued hotly, fingers pointing rudely at her. The old man eyed Cat once more, and she felt stupid for even considering following the bloody knights in the first place.

Cat made her face a confused mask, but hollered back at him, " _I do not know what you are saying, you black-haired shit!_ "

The old man chuckled, before translating to her. " _The man says that you look just the same as the princess we are searching for_."

Cat's eyes widened, before changing back to the confused look of annoyance, a laugh working its way from her throat, husky and soft. " _That dolt thinks I am some sort of princess from wherever he comes from?_ " she questioned, but kept her grey eyes on the Bull. " _I've never been anywhere but Braavos, old man. Though my father could've been a captain of some ship or another, I do not think he's some king_."

The Bull leaned forward to inspect her, and Cat found herself meeting his cerulean eyes. It was pride and her training that had her keeping her ground, not that little voice that said he was awfully pretty for a man. Those eyes were as blue as the seas by The Titan, though not as deep as the canals that lined Braavos.

Cat had forgotten how beautiful they were.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked her gruffly, hurt shining in those eyes of his. She almost felt bad.

Cat rolled her eyes. " _For the last time-_ "

The old man cut in. "You told me that you had never been anywhere bar Braavos, correct?" he had asked it in the Common Tongue, and it meant only one thing. Cat stilled, and felt a peculiar fear run through her as cleanly as a blade would flesh. She would need to backtrack and fix her words rather quickly.

She kept her calm air about her though, and shrugged easily. " _I stowed away on a ship a few months back_ ," she answered. " _It took me to Pentos_ ," she met the Bull's eyes as she said her next words. " _I'm a whore, old man; if you hadn't already guessed. I was working there_."

The lies came easily to her, and Cat held her chin high. The old man's grey eyes lit up. "You understood me," he said testily.

Cat shrugged, then answered in broken Westerosi. "I would be, ah, a poor merchant if I did not."

"Then you lied when you told us that you did not understand," he turned to the black-haired dolt, and then back to Cat, a speculative gleam to his eyes. "You may even be Lady Arya Stark."

Cat glanced behind her; soldiers stood not too far, looking ready for a fight. " _I have told you before, old man. I am not that bloody person_!"

The black-haired shit leaned forward once more. "Who am I?" he asked her, steel to his tone.

Cat scoffed. "How am I to know what some black-haired bastard's name is?"

He did not move, only glared at her knowingly. He was never fooled; but how did he remember her at all? Cat glared back, but her tone of voice was softer. "How'd you get all the way over here, _Ser_?"

"Say my name," he requested, and Cat let out a laugh.

"You're making demands of me?" she asked, a haughty lit to her voice. "That will be the day." She flicked a stray lock of dirty, dark hair from her face and let out a sigh. "First, bastard, I want to know what it is you want with me. You could be Lannister men for all I know."

He flinched at the callousness in her tone, but responded as she wished quickly enough. "We are men of Queen Daenerys Stormborn and King Aegon Targaryen VI, _m'lady_. We are no lion scum."

Cat grinned. "The Little Queen has finally settled in Westeros then?"

The old man glanced between she and the Bastard Bull. "Lady Arya?" he asked.

Cat turned her nose up at that. "If you insist on me being Arya, then you must drop that godsdamned 'Lady' that is before it. I am no lady, ser." She wiped the sweat from her face. No matter how many years she spent in Braavos, Cat did not think she would ever get used to the heat of summer. "Where is Queen Daenerys?"

The old man shifted to rest his hand on the hilt of his blade. "My Lady," he began, ignoring the annoyed look that the girl gave him. "My name is Ser Jorah Mormont. Her Grace, Lady Daenerys, is docked in Pentos." He paused and nodded to the men. "She sent for us to collect you and return you to your House; your elder sister is believed to still live."

Cat snorted. "I am, or rather was, Arya of House Stark; that is true." Her slim fingers came to rest on the dagger at her hip. "But am not leaving my home to help some war that destroyed my old family. I have nothing for me there."

Ser Jorah looked perplexed. Cat shook her head vehemently. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. My father had it wrong; it seems that wherever more than one Stark goes, death follows. If I return to Westeros, what is left of my family will die. I am not leaving Braavos; it is my home now."

Ser Jorah gave her a grim glance before turning away from her and back to his men. "Then I am terribly sorry for this."

Cat stiffened and unsheathed both the dagger on her thigh and the one at her hip. "Pardon?" she asked sweetly. The black-haired shit was giving her a sad look.

That was when the old man gave the command to get Cat into their custody. Needless to say, it did not go quite as smoothly as the old knight had thought.

She had quickly slain two of his men, but her hand stilled when she brought the black-haired shit to his knees. Though, in truth, he did not lift a finger against her.

Cat wasn't sure if that pissed her off more.

As Ser Jorah drew his blade, Cat fled into the mass of Happy Port, not bothering to glance back as she melted fluidly into the crowd and slunk back to the darkness of the House of Black and White.

.

.

"Who are you?"

The same question, as it had been since she had cast away her old face, was asked that morn following.

Cat did not glance at the Kindly Old Man, did nothing but cock her head to the side.

"I was No One two moons ago," she answered silkily.

The Kindly Old Man pursed his mangled lips, not once believing her words. "And who are you _now_?" he stressed the last word, black eyes searching her face for any sign of change in her expression.

Cat did not give him any. " I am known as Cat of the Canals by most these days."

He made a disapproving sound at the back of his throat, but his face relaxed into a small smile. "Still such a terrible liar, Cat of the Canals." He turned from her and started down the staircase that had been her cocoon her first years here. "Your black-haired knight, the Dragon Queen's knight, and their men know you by the title, Lady Arya of House Stark. Go back to where you came from."

Cat's hands clenched by their own volition, and she grit her teeth. She did not retort, only stood still until the sound of the Kindly Old Man's footsteps faded, and the only thing she could hear were the droplets of water leaking from somewhere above and her own breaths.

That was his saying that she was no longer welcome, was it?

Cat let out a breath, then let out a frustrated sound. _Not if I am going to bring attention to the Faceless Men. I am not going to get shelter here_.

Cat wandered about Braavos the rest of the day.

The heat of the day made her seek shade; that being a whorehouse she knew as well as her own chambers in The House of Black and White.

The one face that she did not want to see. Of course he would be here; this was where they'd last tracked her.

She would make a note to not be so repetitive next time.

He had yet to spot her, so Cat carried on milling through the other men and women in the brothel with silent grace. There was no sign of the others, but she kept a wary eye out for them despite that fact.

Looks could be deceiving; Cat of all people knew this.

Keeping her attention on the bastard-knight, Cat saw that a blonde whore had seated herself in his lap, and that-for the most part- he had taken to ignoring the poor girl.

It was Lanna, and the surge of feelings that came at the sight made Cat anxious.

Did the bastard know that Lanna knew her?

Why was Lanna servicing him?

But, above all: Why did Cat care at all?

Cat spun away from them, and sauntered over to a table. _Better to watch him from this angle_ , a part of her whispered as she talked to the particularly handsome one to her right.

By the end of the hour, Cat had managed to wiggle her way into his lap, his sweaty hands resting easily on her hips and arse as she laughed at every little thing he said.

She felt stupid, but Lanna and the rest had taught her that it was the right thing to do; and it was working.

He grinned proudly whenever she did, and his hand would travel further down her abdomen. She kept a careful eye on just how far that hand went; she had blades hidden in quite a few places.

Cat had no intention of actually letting him fuck her, or doing anything else that was expected of a whore. No, she would sooner slit his throat; she was using this man as a ploy.

Two more of Ser Jorah's men had since marched in, and not once had they looked her way.

Cat rose, and the man did not seem to notice as a new whore-one with a shock of red hair-took her place. She was halfway up with steps when she felt a strong hand on her wrist, spinning her around.

Cat snarled, pulled the dagger from her hip and came very close to burying it in the bastard-knight's skull. "You!" she growled out.

The bastard wrestled the blade from her-it dropped from her hand with a clatter- and then managed to get her pressed up against the wall. He had his weight as an advantage, and he made sure to use it. "You," he whispered, and then a wry smile worked its way onto his face. "You are a very hard woman to find, _m'lady_."

Cat pulled a face; but whether it was at the use of the old moniker, or her anger at the situation, neither knew.

The bastard started speaking again. "But what are you doing in a brothel?"

Cat sneered up at him, and flexed against the hold he had on her elbows. His hands tightened in response. "I was leaving," Cat growled. "I do not even have to ask why you are here; that much is obvious."

A strange look passed over his face; it could have been jealousy or guilt, for it was gone too quick for her to interpret. The bastard sneered back after a beat.

They both went silent when the sound of woman's laughter and a man's throaty chuckle came closer.

After the trio had passed them in favour for the rooms upstairs, their argument started anew.

"I was looking for you, _highborn_." The bastard bit out, and it interested Cat that the word 'highborn' was spoken like a slur. Cat tested the movement of her legs. She wiggled it and when he made no move to correct her, she stilled and filed away this information.

"I told you yesterday, _bastard_ ," she said, keeping the same contempt in her tone as he. "That I do not want to join your little militia group. This fact has not changed overnight."

His face clouded for a moment in thought, then, in a low tone that sent shivers down her spine for a very different reason, said, "Gendry."

Cat gave him a bemused glare. "What?" she demanded.

"You always called me Gendry."

Cat let out a laugh. "That's not true," she argued lightly. "From what I can recall, I always called you _Stupid_."

A happier emotion flitted across his face then, and Cat felt like biting her tongue off.

"You did, didn't you?"

Cat let out an aggrieved sigh, and flexed her arms again; her own hands were clamped around his forearms, and she would be able to use that as leverage. The bastard did not seem to realise that she was planning her escape, and Cat couldn't help that twinge of regret at the thought of head-butting such a pretty face.

It was quite short-lived.

Smashing her head into his teeth, she manoeuvred her hips out from under his and used her grip on his arms to spin him around.

Cat only ducked once to pick up her dagger, but otherwise she was as quick as a shadowcat in her haste to leave that whorehouse.

It was only later that Cat realised that she still had his blood on her face, and she rubbed it off absently with the back of her sleeve without a second thought.

.

.

It was almost a moon later that Cat finally made a decision on the matter. And by that time, the lot of them were gone.

Cat wanted her sister back. The sweet-tempered, red-maned elder sister that had harshly named her 'Arya Horseface' so many years before.

And it wasn't as if she would get any work as a whore; Cat was nothing compared to Lanna, even though they were very near the same age.

The whore's name and looks had caught Cat's interest; after all, how many blonde whores with green eyes were there, that were named for House Lannister this far east?

It brought many a different questions to Cat's tongue, most all of them centring around Tyrion Lannister.

With a sigh, Cat trotted off to the docks.

 

Cat drew upon a favour owed to her by Brusco, and was aboard a ship within a day of making her decision.

She had planned everything out, and everything was starting to fall into place.

Lanna would stay with her mother in a small inn in Pentos until Daenerys Stormborn sailed for Westeros. That would be when they would become useful. And necessary, if Cat was being honest with herself.

Cat sighed and traced an indentation on the railings of the _Maiden Fair_. If there was one thing that the destruction of her House had taught her, it was that things never happen for a reason; one had to help themselves. And by helping Lanna and the Sailor's Wife sail to Westeros, Cat was making a new ally in the process.

 _Never do something for nothing_.

It wouldn't be an exceptionally long voyage, getting to Pentos. But it wouldn't be short, either.

Cat cast her eyes to the horizon as the sun set, and wondered if her family were looking at it in a similar light, or if at all.


	2. You've My Gracious Thanks, Your Grace

_**Chapter 2: You've My Gracious Thanks, Your Grace.** _

* * *

  
Two days after leaving the docks of Ragman's Harbour, Cat woke to the sound of the captain shouting about the mooring line. She glanced behind her where Lanna still slumbered, and her mother was pressed against the wooden walls, sleeping as well.

Slipping on her boots, Cat quickly gathered her things and rose to the deck.

Pentos was much larger than Braavos, and had not changed at all since her last visit.

Men still trading and fisher-wives still shouting. But there was something decidedly different, as if the people weren't as loud about it anymore.

Either that, or Cat was going deaf.

The former seem feasible. She had, after all, been slightly concussed when she had gotten away from the Bastard Knight. Getting knocks to the head could do all sorts of things.  

Cat returned below deck to find Lanna already awake and rising with her mother.

Cat smiled at her friend. "We are here," she said quietly. "I'll show you to your inn shortly."

Lanna nodded, and helped the Sailor's Wife off the boat and onto the docks.

Cat thanked the captain of the _Maiden Fair_ , and with her Needle, descended to the docks.

But no, upon further inspection of the traders and the knights in gold, Cat found that it was the threat of dragons that made the folk timid.

At least these Queensguard did not know her, and did not bother her with a second glance as she strode past them.  It was Lanna and her mother that the men balked at with blatant interest, and Cat wished not to be spotted and recognised when her plan was still in its cusp.

A hush ran over the crowd as a screech sounded from the city yonder, and then chatter started in earnest. Cat cocked her head; according to the reactions of the public, the sound belonged to one of Daenerys Stormborn's dragons. Curious.

Curious because most everyone, even her precious goldenguards, cowered at the noise.

Fear commanded more respect than love did.

Cat lead the Sailor's Wife and Lanna to an inn within the city's walls, and handed her golden-haired friend a small bag of coin. "Here," she offered, holding out the money.

Lanna's green eyes widened. "Oh, no! That is yours, Cat. I cannot take it."

Cat rolled her own eyes to the ceiling of her companions' room and turned to Lanna's mother. "But you can," she said and forcibly placed it in the older woman's clutches. "To pay for what you may need. I'll be back within four days, I swear it."

The Sailor's Wife gave her daughter a glare, then turned to Cat and nodded. "Of course, sweetling. And we shall see you then."

But by then, Cat was already gone.

　

Cat pointedly ignored the few stares that she did get, and managed to get dangerously close to a house with a little red door.

But as soon as she caught sight of it, Cat ducked around a corner. A green monster was perched  atop said house, screaming for the life of it.

Cat felt like cutting out its' throat. If such a feat be possible. 

Cat stiffened, and her mouth pulled down as her fingers sought out the tiny rapier of her childhood. Someone was behind her.

The black-haired shit again. Cat almost groaned.

He grinned smugly, and Cat could see the mark of a scab from where she had connected. Cat smiled.

"I told you my mind would not be swayed overnight." She said, tone wary and eyes searching the other shadows.

He watched her nervously for a moment; slow he may be, but not as dim-witted as she recalled. "You came, even after the whole scuffle in Braavos." He paused and took a step closer.

Cat had a feeling that if she did not take that step back, it meant something entirely different to the situation at hand. So she did.

Cat nodded slowly, and backed away from him. "I came by my own volition. I am not one to submit to the whims and wishes of others, you should know that, bastard."

His armour made a scraping sound as he crossed his arms. He flicked his eyes from hers as he spoke. "Seems that way, m'lady."

Cat eyed him a moment, then pushed off the wall of the building she had been hiding against.

"Are you of Daenerys Stormborn's Queen's Guard?" The words were pure curiosity, and only after did she regret the level of interest she had shown in them.

The bastard frowned, clearly confused as to where that question had come from. Cat's only excuse was that the armour he wore was similar to that of Ser Jorah's.

"No, m'lady." At the flash of anger in her face, he smiled a little. "But I am a knight of King Aegon's army."

Cat scrunched up her face. "King _Aegon_? I thought that Rhaegar's son was murdered." She turned from him promptly, not waiting for an answer and started towards the little red door with two guards on either side.

Unsullied, if Cat recalled correctly. They were all under the command of Daenerys Targaryen.

He was beside her within seconds, quiet and disgruntled at her sudden leave. Cat cocked her head and stopped in the middle of the street, eyes cast skyward as she watched the jade beast. "Say, bastard," she started and she felt him tense at the name. "If you now belong to that pompous king, why are you following Daenerys Stormborn's orders?"

The black-haired shit was glaring at her, she could not only see it from the corner of her eye, but could quite nearly feel the heat and anger in his gaze. "Ask nicely," he said. "And I might just answer that question of yours, _m'lady_."

Cat turned sharply to him, a scowl marring her features. "I can call you whatever I wish, _stupid_. You're a bastard, are you not?"

She was not completely ready for him when his oversized paws warped around her arms, face much too close to her own.  Cat tensed, but did not pull away as good sense argued she should do.

Thankfully, he did nothing but hold her in place. "You are cruel."

Cat tipped her head back and laughed. "I was cruel when we were younger, do you not recall?" she stood back, but his fingers tightened their hold. Cat's scowl returned. "Now unhand me, bastard. Trying to rape me in plain sight will get you nowhere."

The bastard did as bid hastily enough when she put it that way, and it brought a smile to her lips as she thought on the fact that of the men she had met; it was the bastards that took honour so seriously.

"And who is this?" a silky voice purred and Cat turned quickly away from him.

The queerest looking man she'd met stood there, garbed in outlandish armour and trinkets. Blue hair and a three-pronged mustachio made her instantly think him Tyroshi, though she could have easily been wrong.

He did not look much older than the bastard, Cat thought. He was awfully pretty.

The bastard spoke for her, and even had the gall to step before her to block her view of the newcomer. "A woman that Queen Daenerys wishes to see."  There was an edge to the bastard's tone, sharp and full of purpose.

The other man made an appeasing sound, and with an arrogant smirk, said with a faint accent, "Ah, she has her whims, our Queen. Just so. You best go then."

The bastard nodded, mouth tight, and hauled Cat towards that damned door. 

She may have dug her claws into any inch of skin that was bare for her to reach.  He grimaced, and had the good sense to let her go.

"Seven fucking hells, Arya!"

Cat sniffed at the name. "I told you not to touch me." She gave him a sour look. "And do not call me that."

"What?" he practically spat. "Call you by your _name_?"

An alien emotion shot through her then, it roared its head and she spat back, "I have not been that little girl for four years, _bastard_! And even then, you would not address me so!"

Cat could see as he closed himself to her, where before she could read everything that shadowed his thoughts, now she barely was given flickers.

"As you wish, Lady Arya."

Cat's mood puckered, but she nodded as if this change pleased her. "Good."

The bastard nodded as well, eyes not once leaving hers. "Good," he echoed.

A cough and a gasp broke them from whatever had taken a hold of their wits, and they jumped apart.

Two silver-blonde individuals stood in the hallway, and Cat knew them to be Targaryens by the way the bastard at her side took the knee. 

If she had been like her sister, Cat would have flushed at being caught arguing with a  bastard. She would have flushed at being caught anywhere near a bastard at all, in fact.

But she was Cat, and Cat did not care. And since she had no practice, truly, in the arts of propriety; she simply bent a little and lowered her head.

The little woman's mouth bowed as she looked Cat over once before motioning the bastard to his feet. "This is her?" She asked, thoroughly unimpressed with the urchin-looking girl; covered in dirt and hair all tangled.

The bastard nodded tightly, nursing the little wounds Cat had left on his neck and jawline. "Yes, Your Grace."

The man--Aegon, if what the bastard said was true--at the Little Queen's side grinned in a bemused fashion. "She did that to you,  Ser Waters?"

The bastard scowled, and Cat let out a laugh. "I split his lip a moon ago."

Aegon's violet eyes flicked to her and he motioned for them to enter the room they stood at the entrance to.  "We were hoping to discuss a few matters with you, my lady."

Cat nodded slowly, and warily followed the man.

The Little Queen smiled warmly at a weathered knight, and Cat recognised him for Ser Jorah.  The old man watched her the way one would watch  viper. Cat gave him a toothy grin.

"Come, sit." Came Daenerys Stormborn's soft tone.

Cat turned her attention back to the Little Queen, mouth quirked downwards. "I would prefer to stand, Your Grace."

If she was affronted, she hid it well. "Very well," she said, and flicked her indigo eyes to her nephew. "Aegon, tell her of our arrangement."

The Targaryen king did not seem pleased with being ordered about like a whelp or servant. But with little more than a sigh, he began speaking. "Dorne has decided that they will only back us if I take Arianne Martell to wife," he told her, and sank into the pillowed bench opposite his aunt. "We will give your family the North as wardens, if you give us your word that you will aid us."

Cat gave him a dubious look, folding her arms over her chest and cocking her head. "But we are Kings in the North. Why would we agree to become anything less than that?"

The Little Queen's eyes flashed. "And give you half of our kingdom? One that our forefather conquered?" she let out a laugh. "I think not."

This will end with blood on their pretty, wooden floors

. Cat thought and cast her eyes around the room where the Queen's Guard stood with their hands on the pommel of their swords. _And most of it will be mine_.

It was times like this that Cat hated the stubbornness in herself.  "The North belongs to Starks, it has been that way since The Firstmen. Give us the North as Kings, and we will remain loyal to the Crown."

Cat smiled sweetly. "If not, well, when winter comes, not even your dragons will save you and your precious army."

Aegon made a sound akin to a growl. "Or we could simply kill you and be done with it now."

Cat laughed, though the bastard at her side tensed. "If that were possible, you'd not have told me your arrangement." She glanced around the room once more and snuffed out that tiny nervousness that fluttered in her chest. "You also would not be able to hold the North if you destroyed what was left of House Stark. The Northmen would rebel."

Aegon's mouth puckered, and then an easy smile stretched across his face. "Point to you."

The Little Queen sighed and crossed her legs, the fine silk hiking up past her knees.

Sansa would have swooned.

Cat held up a hand to still the queen, and bit her lip. "House Stark will back your cause," she said. Daenerys Stormborn smiled happily, thinking that she had won. "But only if you give us rule of the lands above The Neck."  Cat continued conversationally. "As Kings and Queens in the North. You have my word."

The Little Queen's reaction to that was decidedly less enthusiastic. "How dare you," she seethed. "You insolent little-!"

Cat smirked, entirely unfazed by the older woman's outburst. Aegon, on the other hand, flinched and in a quieter voice, "Aunt, surely there is no need for that?" he turned to one of the servants. "Perhaps you could acquire for Lady Arya some new clothes." Cat wondered what was wrong with her attire, and then remembered that she hadn't washed in a few days.

The Little Queen sniffed, and waved  to one of her Dothraki handmaidens, muttering something in that tongue. Cat had very little practice with the harsh language.

The woman bowed lowly, then scampered over to Cat and began murmuring so quickly that Cat only caught every other word.

Daenerys Stormborn gestured down the hall with a careless flick of her wrist. "Follow Mikki," she said. "She will find you suitable clothing."

Cat was tempted to give the Little Queen a scathing look, but refrained, and--with once quick glance to the bastard--stalked after the servant girl.

　

.

.

　

It wasn't so much a gown that the Little Queen had garbed Cat in. The front of the dress was much too short, and the leather riding pants that fit snugly to her legs were far from the dresses Sansa used to wear.

Cat's hair was brushed roughly and tied back into a braid that hung between her shoulder blades, and the bath that they had forced her into had washed away all the dirt from her face and hands.

She hated it.

At that moment, though, Cat was inspecting the gardens of Illyrio's Estate. Soft footed, she stalked though the rows of trees and exotic flowers quietly, and jumped a little when she heard a cough.

Cat spun around, teeth bared savagely. "It's unseemly to sneak upon people," she told the king. Aegon Targaryen smiled at her.

"I did cough to notify you of my presence," he retorted. "And I am the king."

Cat gave him a look and turned from him; continuing down the path into the garden proper.

Aegon let out a surprised laugh at her callousness and trotted after her.

　

He was starting to grate on her nerves quite a bit.

The questions he asked of Cat were profoundly personal, and the urge to hit him made her itch.

"Oh, for the love of everything right," she snapped finally. "Do shut up, _Your Grace_."

Aegon Targaryen stopped up short of the question he had been in the middle of asking; features taking on an offended look.

Cat did not give him a chance to reply before she was exceedingly close to his person, grey eyes flashing. "I will not answer you truthfully, Aegon Targaryen. Do not bother wasting your time to know of me." _I do not want to know of you_. Cat pulled back and blew a lock of hair that had escaped the braid. "It is foolish."

The king rose from his seat on the wooden bench, and though he wasn't as tall or wide as the bastard; he was still, at the very least, a foot taller than Cat.

Her gaze remained on his face until her head was tilted back and she was glaring up at him.

He leaned forward, and much to her chagrin, Cat took a step back. "Why?" he asked. "I find you quite interesting."

Cat grimaced. "Leave me be," she snapped and stalked away.  Aegon followed her.

She stepped deftly up the large stone steps and into the house, and spotted Daenerys Stormborn sitting with the blue-haired Tyroshi from before.

Said man glanced over at Cat and grinned. "Ah, it's the woman my Queen wished to see."

Cat smiled back, more an imitation than a genuine one. "Indeed it is," she answered. 

"One that I thought long since dead." Came a cynical tone from across the room. Cat cocked her head to the side as she took him in. Shaggy, blonde hair and garbed in red and gold clothes. Two different pairs of eyes, a mangled face, and a wine glass between his stunted hands. Despite missing some parts, The Imp looked much the same.

Mayhaps a little older.

Cat gave him a mocking bow. "Lord Tyrion Lannister. I had not thought to see you here." She paused and flicked her eyes up as she pretended to think. "Well," she debated to herself. "At least not quite so soon."

The dwarf's mismatched eyes flashed at that, mistrust shining perfectly through his calm façade. "I  do hate riddles, girl."

Cat grinned wolfishly. "As do I, my lord."

Daenerys Stormborn watched them both with thinly veiled interest, and the dolt at Cat's side looked much like how she had once seen Grey Wind; very much confused.

"You know each other?" Aegon asked.

Cat gave him a bemused glance. "No, _Your Grace_. Did you not know that all perfect strangers greet each other in the same fashion?"

Aegon pulled a face, not at all offended by her words, more annoyed than anything else. It was Jon Connington who's hackles began to rise.

"You will not speak to your king in such a way, girl!"

Aegon gave his Hand a disgruntled look. "She meant no true offence, Jon. Leave her."

Jon Connington looked as if he'd just been slapped.

Cat may have smirked.

Daenerys Stormborn cleared her throat, a stern look overcoming her face. The men quickly shut up.

"We will be sailing for Westeros within the month," she commanded, her silver-gold hair shining prettily in the sunlight, looking every inch a queen. Daenerys turned to the Tyroshi at her side. "Spread the word amongst the ranks, Daario."

The Tyroshi bowed deeply to her before spinning on his heel and leaving.

Aegon uncrossed his arms and grinned at his aunt. "I suppose that we will have to be packing our things away for the trip, then."

Daenerys Stormborn nodded patiently, the way one would a child. It made Cat wonder if she wasn't the only one the brat-king annoyed. Her offhand remark, Cat thought, was never meant to offend. "To conquer that which you could not, nephew."

Aegon's violet eyes flashed with the first true anger Cat had seen in him. "You were not my second choice in partnership, aunt." He took a small step forward, and Daenerys stiffened, back straight and chin high. "I would have easily had Dorne's allegiance, had your dragons not _burned_ their prince alive."

Cat sensed that this had been a regular argument between the two before she had gotten here, and she judged by the way the Little Queen's fingers clenched into the arm of her chair, that it cost them both dearly for what the queen's children had done. And that the queen loathed the mention of her mistake.

Tyrion Lannister watched along with Cat; mismatched eyes guarded for the fight that would surely come.

Daenerys Stormborn rose slowly, mouth twisted unattractively. "How dare you!" She all but shouted at him. "I took you in and kept you fed and clothed when I did not have to; I gave you an entire army of Unsullied, Dothraaki and Freedmen to fight alongside your Blackfyre Knights!"

It was surprising just how quickly the situation had gone downhill.

The Imp gestured that Cat should join him off to the side from where the two Targaryens were arguing adamantly that they were right and the other was wrong.

The Imp's eyes glittered with mirth, and Cat cocked a brow.  Tyrion rose up onto his tiptoes and Cat leaned down a little so that he could whisper to her. "They agreed not to argue the duration of your stay here. They tend to  get quite rowdy; sometimes even the beasts outside mimic them." _They did not want to appear weak and divided_.  He leaned away and observed the Targaryens again, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "And they were doing so very well."

Lord Connington seemed at a loss as of what to do, but settled for a look that said he was not pleased. 

Illyrio Mopatis shuffled in then, and the silver-blonde duo broke apart when he began to speak.  The fat man bowed as low as his middle would allow, and said, "I beg your pardon, Your Graces." He straightened and a queer sort of fear entered his eyes.  "But I have received news that your whereabouts is known to the Usurper's heir, Your Grace."

Daenerys Stormborn's delicate face bloomed in anger. "Are you certain?" she asked in a dangerously quiet tone.

Cat eyed the Little Queen's reaction with detached interest, cocking her head much like the creatures she had styled herself after.  Illyrio Mopatis nodded hastily, and Daenerys scowled.

"Then we shall have to land sooner than the end of this month." She observed, beautiful silver hair glinting in the scarce light of the afternoon.

Cat stepped forward, hands tangling in the not-quite-dress that adorned her body. "I can go seek Daario if you wish, Your Grace." She offered.

Daenerys Stormborn seemed to consider this, then nodded her ascent. "Very well, Lady Stark. But you must take Ser Waters to escort you." The Little Queen waved the bastard over with a dismissive flick of her hand. "Tell Daario Naharis and Grey Worm that we set sail the day after the morrow."

Cat had some idea of whom Grey Worm was--she had seen the Unsullied commander some time earlier--and Daario Naharis could not have wandered far.

Cat nodded and hid her distaste for being escorted gracefully.

　

Finding Daario Naharis and Grey Worm wasn't that trying of a task, but the fact that the Queen had the bastard escort her about Pentos--as if she were some little maiden from a tower--made Cat want to scream in annoyance.

But she did what she had set out to do, only now Cat had to tell Lanna and The Sailor's Wife of the change as well.

Cat also knew that it wasn't for her safety that she needed an escort. They did not want her running off, those Targaryens. They did not trust her nearly as much as they made it seem, but they needed her.

"The house is back that way, m'lady."

Cat did not bother answering him, and instead continued on her way back to the docks.

"M'lady Arya--"

Cat spun around, eyes flashing like pieces of steel. "Do _not_ call me that, bastard!"

He had the gall to smirk at her, though if she bothered to look closer into it, she would find that it had been done so without mirth. "Which, _m'lady_ Arya?"

Cat grit her teeth, very nearly biting her tongue. "In fact," she mused, forcing a calm air about her and ignoring his jab, "do not speak to me at all."

The bastard sighed, but did not speak as Cat lead them to the little inn by the docks. She strode through the doors and slipped up the stairs, but not before telling the black-haired shit to stay and wait for her.

He had protested of course, but Cat had ignored his indignant complaints.

"Cat!" Lanna's tone conveyed surprise and mild joy, green eyes smiling. The room was smoky and dark, the only light coming from the small wax candle on the table by the corner, with the sun having gone down nearly a hour or so before.  The Sailor's Wife sat upon the rough cot, a mug of what looked like wine between her fingers, her dark hair falling across her face.

Cat offered the blonde woman a ghost of a smile. "Hullo, Lanna."

Lanna paused, taking in Cat's tone; and though the young whore knew of what Cat was, she did not know the full extent of how her training affected the way in which Cat acted. Lanna flicked her eyes over to her mother, then back to Cat. "Are we leaving?" she asked tentatively.

At her daughter's words, The Sailor's Wife glanced up from her thoughts. Cat let her gaze wander to the woman. "Yes," she answered. "Within the next three days."

The Sailor's Wife frowned, a thin line forming between her brows. "Why did you bring us with you, Cat of the Canals?"

Cat cocked her head to the side, eyes sharp. "I will not deny that I brought you here for a purpose, Sailor's Wife. But until it is needed, it would do you no good to know of it."

The Sailor's Wife's mouth parted in an almost-sneer, but she let the topic of conversation drop. Lanna watched, and though she played at not knowing the threat behind the words, Cat could see how her Lannister-green eyes sharpened ever so slightly, how her bow mouth twitched downwards in a scowl. 

But, just like that, the expression she bore dissipated into an awkward smile.  "So you will come for us when we are to leave?" she asked, hands fisting in the material of her dress.

A knock at the door interrupted Cat, and she turned to glare at the offending object. Lanna glided over to the door, and Cat could make out the familiar form of the bastard beyond.

A snarl marred her face. "I thought I told you to wait for me?"  
The bastard did not move from the doorway, but Cat moved to him, dagger in her hand. "I am quite certain you heard me," she said. "Yes, you did. You were there."

To his credit, the bastard did not flinch from her as the steel dagger scraped up his armour and to his neck slowly as she spoke. He eyed the two women behind her, then settled his cerulean eyes on Cat's face. "They will be worrying, m'lady."

Cat growled a yanked herself away from him. "You trust foolishly," she threw at him. "But you are correct." Cat nodded to Lanna. "I will return on the morrow, until then."

Lanna smiled warmly, teeth flashing in a slightly crooked smile. "Until then," she echoed. "Farewell Cat."

Cat turned and pushed past the bastard, heels clicking against the wood of the stairs as she left.

　

.

　

.

　

Cat huffed as she lay back on the bench, eyes searching the skies.

Keeping Lanna and her mother hidden was harder than she originally planned. The bastard walking in and then asking who they were was not making the task any easier.

Cat breathed in the salty taste of coastal air and crossed her legs at the ankles. She was certain that they were who she thought they were, and if the two weren't… all of Cat's plans would be left in disarray.

Cat froze when she heard footsteps along the path, and sat up; drawing her legs to her chest.

His hair was still visible even with the moon blanketed by clouds, and Cat could make out the frown on his pale face. "Lady Arya? What are you doing out here so late?"  
Cat pulled a face at her old name, but shrugged in answer. "It is the hour of the wolf, and I could not sleep. It is easier to think out here."

Aegon Targaryen took her answer for an invitation to seat himself on the bench beside her, and Cat could not find the energy to correct him.

"What are _you_ doing out here, Your Grace? You do not even have _guards_ with you."

She knew that he could hear the mocking in her tone, and it surprised her when he laughed. "I could not sleep either, my Lady." He sighed after a moment, and ran a hand through his silver-blonde hair. "And it is easier to think out here."

Cat eyed him, but said nothing. His posture was that of a man who had lost a fight of some sort, and she wanted to know why.

Aegon turned his face to her, purple eyes looking black in the night. "Aren't you going to ask what it is?"  
Cat snorted, defensiveness making her tense. "You think awfully high of yourself."

Aegon chuckled. "I am King."

Cat's grey eyes narrowed. "You are _a_ king, Aegon Targaryen." She corrected.

Aegon's smile was alabaster in the night. "But still king." Cat pulled a face, and stretched her legs out as Aegon yawned. "Though you do not much treat me like one."

"You do not much act like one," she retorted quick as a snake.

Aegon chuckled, but tapered off quickly and they fell into silence.

Cat watched him carefully from the corner of her eye, watched as he rose to his feet and offered her his arm. "I'll walk you back to your chambers, my Lady."

Cat rolled her eyes as she came to her feet, ignoring the arm he held out. "You have my _most_ _gracious_ thanks, Your Grace." She muttered as she walked on ahead of him.

Aegon grinned boyishly in return, and she heard him jog to catch up.

They retreated to their rooms in companionable silence, though Cat could hear the rush of the ocean and the roars of the dragons’ somewhere within the city.

Cat dreamt of ice, of Westeros, that night; the first time in years. She dreamt of ice and Direwolves and cities made of mountains with maidens kissed by fire in their peaks.

 

　


	3. Chapter 3

It was getting colder.

The snow-castles that she built with Sweetrobin stayed for days at a time before they fully melted beneath what little sunlight had managed to peak through the clouds surrounding The Eyrie. The snow rained now like water did in the south, forcing them into warmer clothing with furs and thick hoods.

Though Alayne's cousin rarely sought out her company anymore, and little Robert Arryn had been betrothed to some Redwyne girl, Sweetrobin still demanded to have her company when he ventured outside with the other castle's bastard, Mya Stone.

That woman had features so alike to the old king that it made Sansa cringe away underneath Alayne's pleasant words and smiles. It wasn't that she found the bastard girl's company displeasing- far from that, she was Alayne's closest friend- it was the fact that the way she laughed was so very close to how Robert Baratheon had, that it made Alayne pause.

Alayne was watching over Sweetrobin's playing in the courtyard. He's getting taller, she thought. He'll be able to reach my shoulder in a moon's time.

His dark head was a tiny mound in the mountain of fur she and Mya had dressed him in that morning, greys and blues with a small white falcon on the torso and sleeves.

"Sweetrobin, please take care," she called as he tumbled down for the fourth time that morning. He was so frail that, if he'd been a year or so younger, the knocks he took to the ground would have left him with broken bones.

Her cousin paid her no mind other than to cry back in quite the demanding voice, "Come play, Alayne!"

Lysa should have put more time into teaching him lordly etiquette, Alayne thought with her soft lips pursed. His betrothed will think him a fool. But Robert did not seem to care of what his little lady thought, though the girl sat with her septa only a few feet away, face twisted in a confused manner.

Eleanor the maiden's name was, and she was present because Willas Tyrell was negotiating with Littlefinger as of late, one of the conditions of his allegiance being that Sweetrobin marry a cousin from his mother's side.

Alayne cocked her head to the side. It was a smart scheme, considering Petyr Baelish was plotting to poison Sweetrobin anyway. Why not have Tyrell favour before that happened? Plots were exactly what Sansa had come to excel at, and Lord Baelish's could not have been thought out better.

Though, no doubt there would be talk about Alayne's own betrothal to Sweetrobin be cast aside. But Sansa preferred not to dwell on it.

Alayne turned from the window, her skirts swirling about her feet with a faint rustle. Littlefinger was expecting her in the castle's main drawing room, and she was to serve the men drinks and to listen as Lord Baelish negotiated.

For all of that man's vileness, he still wished to keep her informed, and for that Alayne decided to hate him a little less.

Alayne shuffled quietly but quickly through the Eyrie's stone halls to find Mya Stone, to have the girl tend to Sweetrobin. He liked the Baratheon bastard more than she anyway, and he would comply much more quickly to bathing and getting ready for supping with the Tyrells if Alayne wasn't present. She found that the ink haired woman was in the Moon Hall, speaking in hushed tones with one of the knights.

No doubt one of her other endeavours. She thought dryly, and then caught herself. Sansa frowned at her own thoughts; it wasn't that she considered Mya any different for her having lost her maidenhead before she was wed. No, it wasn't that at all. Alayne simply hadn't expected herself to be so crass.

Running her slim, pale hands down the front of her dress, Alayne cleared her throat. "Pardon me, Mya. Ser Jearos." She said nodding to them both, and the black-haired woman turned from the knight, round face slightly red.

"Oh," Mya said, a small smirk coming over her features. "Hullo Alayne." Alayne smiled politely back and bit the inside of her cheek before she spoke.

"I am to help my father with serving wine while he negotiates with Lord Willas." She blurted out softly. By this time, Mya had waved Ser Jearos away and the two girls were alone.

Alayne let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. Mya nodded her on.

"Can you mayhaps help the maids with dressing Sweetrobin for supper?" she asked. "I will not be able."

Mya consented, but jokingly told her that she owed a lemon cake or two. "Good luck," the black-haired woman said as Alayne thanked her.

Alayne smiled as if she did not know just what Mya was referring to. "And to you," she said softly before twirling quietly away.

.

.

"More wine please, my girl." Littlefinger directed her towards the Tyrells and the handful of Vale Lords that had decided to present themselves.

Alayne's mud-coloured hair concealed whom she truly was, but that did not stop the shiver of fear that went down her spine as Lord Willas looked at her. What if he recognised her? She shouldn't be here, serving drinks to some high lord who's sister was Queen of Westeros. Alayne quickly pushed it down and smiled demurely at the heir to High Garden.

"Of course, m'lord."

But now that she thought on it, the way he smiled at her made her flush ever so slightly. Made her stomach knot in a pleasant way.

Alayne pushed that down too. It was simply her nerves, nothing more. It would do her no good to ideal in fantasies, though that kind and gentle man could've been hers in another life. Petyr had a plan for her, and Willas Tyrell did not have a part to play in that.

It was something Alayne would have to change. Perhaps twist Littlefinger into keeping to his promise of House Arryn and House Tyrell being bound, if only so she could see Lord Willas again.

She poured the wine, making certain that her eyes never made contact with Lord Willas's and stepped quietly away to stand by her 'father's' seat.

Littlefinger cleared his throat and the hushed bickering died; the lords all turning to him expectantly. "As you all know, there has been talk of dragons across the Narrow Sea."

Mace Tyrell scoffed, the man's thick curls were being to grey, but he still clung to the foolishness men were known for in their youth. "They are but rumours, Lord Baelish. You'd be a fool to believe them."

"Ah," said Littlefinger, "but if they were to be anything otherwise, we'd have a war on our hands." At this he turned his head and glanced at Sansa, his green eyes telling her of the truth in his words. Alayne shivered and avoided his stern eyes.

After a beat, Lord Willas said in his gentle tone, "Tell us the true reason you brought us here, my Lord."

Littlefinger nodded and clasped his hands before him on the table. "If my sweet daughter's betrothal to Lord Robert Arryn is to be dissolved," he started, and Sansa cringed at the endearment. Lord Willas noticed, and Alayne wiped the expression away with well-concealed panic. "It would be best to wed her to Lord Harold Hardyng before the Targaryens arrive on our shores." Alayne watched the floor with veiled distaste. The man seemed no better than the fat, old king had been; for love of the Mother, he already had two bastards!

The conversation progressed from there, and all the while Alayne snuck glances of Lord Willas, knowing better than to stare too long. The talk she'd been brought there to observe held precisely no interest for Sansa, and once or twice she was told to fill their cups, but other than that she sat demurely by the corner; hands folded in her lap.

When they all rose, Alayne did as well.

A round of muttered 'thank yous' and 'farewells' came as the men departed. Lord Willas stopped before her though-the cane gave him away-causing her heart to leap into her throat.

He lifted her hand from her side and brought it to his lips, brushing a feather-light kiss across her knuckles. "Good evening, my Lady."

Alayne flushed, and folded herself into a curtsy. "And to you, my Lord." None of the others had kissed her hand.

With a nod he turned and limped away with his lord father and a handful of lesser lords.

And Sansa had never seen a more beautiful being.

Sweetrobin claimed her time that night, demanding that she read to him.

Littlefinger sneered at the mention of Lysa's son, but wished Alayne a good night and sent her on her way with a kiss. She did so with a smile, but as soon as she was out of his room she childishly wiped the back of her sleeve across her mouth.

Sansa almost expected Arya's words of, 'Gross' to pass over her lips, and felt a stab of pain at the reminder of her sister.

As she made her way to Sweetrobin's dorm, Mya appeared from a room that was not her own.

Giving her a conspiring look, Alayne smiled. "Evening, Mya."

She did have the good grace to look sheepishly around for anyone else, but when she found none, she smiled brilliantly. "Evening, Alayne."

Mya joined her on her walk to Sweetrobin's chamber, and they chatted quietly about the meeting, and when Alayne's betrothal came up, Mya snorted. "He isn't the most honourable man in existence," she agreed with a tilt of her head. They had reached the little Lord Arryn's chambers by then. "But you could be married off to a man much worse."

Alayne was tempted to say something along the lines of 'I'd much rather not be wed at all' and 'It still does not make it fair', but politely held her tongue.

"To be sure," she replied in a soft tone, and then nodded her head to the other girl. "Pleasant dreams, Mya."

Mya Stone looked her over once, eyeing her carefully calm face before giving her a half-hearted smile and nodded back. "And to you, Alayne."

Alayne rapped upon the door twice before a muffled voice welcomed her inside.

Stepping into warmth that was almost too much, Alayne squinted against the light the beside candles provided.

"Evening, Sweetrobin." She started and made her way to his side. Said boy's face lit up and she smiled at him, his earlier rudeness to her that day forgiven.

Little Robert Arryn was still sickly, no matter how hard he tried to claim otherwise. "Hullo Alayne," he chirped and then patted the arm of the wooden chair beside the bed with his fingertips. "Will you tell me a story?"

Alayne sat and deftly tucked her legs underneath herself, folding her hands in her lap and tilted her head. "Which one would you prefer, my Lord?"

He thought for a moment; propped up on his pillows he looked so thin. "The tale of Dunk and Egg." By the sound of his voice, he was not far from sleep already, but she would bow to his wishes as she always had to.

Alayne smiled, though it was the fourth or fifth time he'd asked it of her. But she still nodded demurely and told it to him in a hushed tone, responding to his questions with a soft voice and smiling at the right times.

And the night passed away like many of the others before it; soft and gently and calm. But Sansa knew it to be only the calm before something much worse.

She could feel it. A storm was coming from the East, and it would consume them all.


	4. The Broken Arm

 

When Cat awoke, the sun had not yet risen. Lanna still slept as Cat rose from their shared cot, and a few of the men were waking as she tied her hair back and shoved on her boots.

They would be near Dorne by now, and the dragon that slept within the depths of the haul knew it as well.

Low rumblings vibrated the mahogany beneath her feet as she stepped upon the deck, the breeze sending droplets of water on her face. Viserion was awake and was no doubt irritated.

Three ships held three dragons, and the smallest was within the _Defiant_. The calmest. Viserion, the white one. But a dragon was still dangerous, and could still burn the ship down as easily as a direwolf could rip a man's arm from its socket.

Cat wiped the moisture away absently, grey eyes focused on the smudge on the horizon. For all the adventures she'd had--if one could perhaps even call them that--she had never set eyes on land belonging to the Martells.

A set of heavy foot falls came from behind and settled beside her. The bastard leant against the railings of the ship, blue eyes following hers. They did not speak for a long while, not until The Broken Arm and the Sea of Dorne became visible, and the Little Queen called for her children to be released.

The sun had risen to sit comfortably on the horizon, shining much too brightly for Cat's liking.

A series of calls came from the other ship, and the captain of the _Defiant_ , the ship Cat herself stood upon, cried back in Braavosi a confirmation.

They were near to a port, and they'd dock soon.

The bastard listened, but it was quite clear to her that he did not understand them nearly as much as he'd have liked.

Cat took pity upon him. "They say that we will be near enough to dock soon," she told him, and pointed with thin fingers to the shadow a whiles away from the fleet. "Over there, see it?"

The bastard nodded, and cast his eyes back to the captain's cabin. Tyrion Lannister emerged swathed in his House colours, eyes weary.

Cat pursed her lips and glanced over to the ship Daenerys Targaryen was upon. "It mightn't have been the wisest thing to do," she commented.

The bastard glanced over at her. "What would've been?" he asked.

Cat gestured with her chin to where the black dread flew overhead. "Letting that beast fly loose over Dorne. I do not think even she knows how to control it. Let alone three of them at once."

Men lifting Viserion's cage interrupted anything he might have said, the drag of chains against the wood ringing out and making Cat grind her teeth.

Cat felt unease prick at her gut; she did not trust dragons, both those with two legs and those with four.

The Imp cocked a golden brow as he waddled over, his marred mouth twisting into a sardonic smile. "This could ruin my morning."

As if to cement his statement, Viserion rumbled out a call to his brothers; smoke plumed from his maw and nostrils, threatening fire to those near him.

The Little Queen's presence on the nearby ship calmed the beast some, the screeching subsiding to muffled growls.

One foolish man went in close enough to rid the serpent of its chains before backing up faster than a mouse spotting a cat. The wrym snapped at the air a few feet from where the man had leapt out of the way.

Cat let the unease she was feeling cross her face. "Yes," she concurred, her eyes meeting the Imp's briefly. "That it could."

It wasn’t terribly large, not nearly as big as its' black brother, but still… The sound of leathery wings stretching out and taloned claws scraping against the ship was a sight to behold. The cry it sung to the morning air was returned by Drogon and Rhaegal both, and the jade beast lifted its wings high above its body.

Everyone aboard the ship ducked low to avoid the beat of them. The steady _thump thump thump_ of a dragon's wings started, and Cat felt it drum against her chest as she lay against the deck. The ship rocked violently to one side, and then to the other before it settled and the dragon was in the air. Cat lifted herself to her feet, the bastard following her lead.

A head of blonde hair peaked up from below deck, a sun-kissed hand coming up to rub at green orbs. "What on earth…" came Lanna's voice, still thick with sleep. Cat offered the older girl a smile, and pointed to where the trio of wyrms snapped playfully at each other in the sky.

Lanna cast her eyes up, and they widened in surprise. "They are bigger than I'd first thought."

The bastard recognised her quickly enough, and one side of Cat's mouth pulled up in amusement at the expression his features contorted into. Lanna, it seemed, did not know his face.

No, all her wide, toothy smiles were for Cat as she hopped over excitedly. "Did I miss them all?" She asked of the dragons, and when Cat nodded with a half-smile, the Imp's daughter pouted. "I had thought to see at least one take off."

Cat shrugged, head tilting as the movement turned into a stretch. "No doubt Trystane Martell will be fond of them," she told the blonde. "Prince Quentyn was apparently as well."

The blonde's eyes narrowed and her head tilted in a way that said she had heard the rumours, but it was the bastard to chide Cat.

"That was cruel." He muttered gruffly.

Cat's eyes flashed, but she took it in her stride. "That was the point, Ser Waters."

The bastard met her eyes, steady and quiet. "You were not this cruel when we were younger." Tyrion Lannister apparently found the skies and far off waves much and more interesting than the current topic, and had scooted away from them both. Even Lanna seemed inclined to leave them at it.

Cat shrugged off the comment made by the knight and stepped away from them both. "War changes us all, bastard." She snapped, and then left them in favour of the quietness of the bow.

Cat did not speak to any of them for the rest of their time on the ship.

 

.

 

.

 

Cat had found that in Braavos, though there was an abundance of sea water, there was very little--if any--sand to accompany it.   Dorne was known for having giant sand dunes and hot, humid deserts that killed any man who dare cross them without already knowing the way out. And it was _everywhere_.

Cat decided she hated sand.

The Broken Arm was leagues away from Sunspear, and the Little Queen would have to beg the seven hells for mercy if Trystane Martell did not meet with them as was discussed with the prat Aegon nearly three years earlier after his failed attempt at re-conquering Westeros.

The fool seemed to have forgotten that when one wishes to conquer a land, you'd best have dragons and a fucking large army at that to have anywhere near a chance. Cat swung up into her saddle before offering Lanna her hand.

"Gods above it's hot," the blonde muttered, and took a moment to get comfortable behind her. She had tied her golden locks up tight against her head, but sweat still clung to her tanned skin.

Cat hadn't ridden a horse in years, but she fell back into the rhythm quickly enough. So, of course it took only a few seconds for the prat king to make an appearance and make Cat jerk a little too hard on the reins to stop her mount from colliding with his.

The horse reared back, making Lanna clutch onto Cat's waist tightly and Cat to the saddle with one hand, while loosely the reins the other. For one small moment, Cat allowed herself to scare, but tucked it away and brought the horse back down onto all fours within the next.

Aegon Targaryen sat there, and when he saw that neither of them had come to harm, the shocked expression turned to one of mirth. Cat scowled, already knowing he'd throw her a jab before he opened his mouth.

"Did I spook you, my lady?" He asked, a smile tugging at his mouth.

Jon Connington had stopped ahead of them, awaiting his prince. His dark eyes stayed on her mostly as Aegon Targaryen baited her.

Cat lifted her chin. "Must you always seek me out?" she paused and glanced over her shoulder at Lanna. "Or is it she that you want?" The question had quite a bit to it, and she realised as she said it that it was also an insult to her friend.

The prat knew enough of Lanna to know she was a whore, and he blinked, thrown by Cat's answer.

Cat offered him a polite smile and a nod. "Good day, Your Grace." Tapping her mount in the side, she coaxed him forward and past Aegon Targaryen's stupid expression.

 

Lanna had gone quiet behind her, though to be true, Cat could not find it in her to give an apology. She was what she was, a lying, thieving, murderer; and in Lanna's case that was a whore of Braavos.

Cat could see an envoy belonging to House Martell waiting along the road, the red and gold suns waving sluggishly in the scarce breeze. Aegon Targaryen trotted ahead of her now, having the mind not to send anymore remarks her way since.

When the company stopped, Cat felt Lanna strain to catch a glimpse of the princess of Dorne. The blonde's fingers tightened about Cat's waist as she fidgeted in the saddle to look. Twisting her neck to give an annoyed glance at the girl, Cat said, "Stop moving. You're spooking the horse."

Lanna paused a second only to narrow her eyes in mock irritation. "Much like you did before, no?" she asked with a smile. When Cat took upon an offended air, the smirk slipped. Lanna furrowed her brows. "I did not mean to offend you, Cat. It was not my intention--"

"It is less than I deserve for speaking of you in such a manner." Cat interrupted mildly, mirth twinkling in her grey orbs. "But you did not offend me, dearest Lanna. Only pricked my pride."

Lanna blinked owlishly. "Before?" A grin. "But you did not insult me, Cat. I _am_ a whore." The smile was then directed at the prat king's back. "And he is awful pretty, ain't he?"

Cat's hackles rose. "You _were_ a whore. Not anymore." To this Lanna simply shrugged.

Cat rolled her eyes heavenward, and let her eyes track the princess of Dorne and Aegon Targaryen as they conversed. The Little Queen and Trystane Martell were also discussing something of import, if the way the Targaryen Queen reacted was anything to go on.

"Cat?" Lanna persisted, green orbs searching her face.

Cat flicked her eyes to the girl, an exasperation colouring her features. "He is nothing less than horrid."

"You like him." Lanna narrowed her eyes, and Cat started at how easily this girl had read her.

Cat bit her lip, fingers clenching around the reins and letting go within the same breath. "He's _amusing_." She allowed, voice bored. Lanna sighed, and let the subject drop with a pout.

"To Sunspear!" One of the knights called out to the company, and Cat flexed her legs against her mount's sides.

Lanna giggled behind her, excitement thrumming in the sound.

 

.

 

.

 

The halls of Sunspear were grand. Grand and _old_. Cat could smell it and commented as such to Lanna who rolled her eyes sceptically but nodded all the same. The rough, wide stone walls reminded Cat of Winterfell.

The bastard trailed behind them, as one of the guards Aegon Targaryen had assigned to her person he had no choice. It was quickly becoming a pain. Cat did not know what it was about the bastard that irritated her so. Mayhaps it was the way in which he _assumed_ to know her, as if she had not changed in the slightest the past four years. _That was it_ , she confirmed. _He thinks himself my friend still, when he is anything but_.

"I shall present myself to Prince Doran at the Tower of the Sun," Aegon told them all. Prince Trystane Martell bowed to them and began towards where the tower lay.

When the prat king bowed to them, she and his aunt, and departed for the company of Prince Doran, Cat resigned to the bastard's with a sigh. Lanna was conversing with a few of the maids Daenerys Targaryen was conversing with her sellsword, silver-blonde head bent towards his blue, speaking rapidly in High Valyrian. Daario Naharis was waved away and the Little Queen's violet eyes focused on Cat. The Little Queen motioned for Cat to follow her, and Cat let irritation flash over her face a moment.

Lanna rocked on her heels at her side, waiting to be dismissed or asked to come along. "She can accompany us if you so wish, Lady Arya." Daenerys Targaryen's tone was mild, demanding but not haughty as it had been before.

Cat raised a brow, but glanced to Lanna's face; who nodded happily. Grey eyes flicking back to the Little Queen, Cat said, "I would like that."

 

They wandered aimlessly through the dusty halls for a small time, until the Little Queen halted and sat upon one of the benches lining the walls.

Cat stopped also, Lanna and the bastard not three feet behind her. The Little Queen cocked her head, deep, violet eyes studying Cat's form before flicking to their surroundings.

Cat did the same. She knew that they were only here to await news from Aegon or Lord Connington, and so did not venture to begin a conversation with the shut off Queen. But it was, in fact, Daenerys Targaryen who began to speak with she.

"You would fight for our cause, correct?"

Cat frowned, eyes narrowing. "I said as such."

The Little Queen smoothed down her skirts with dainty, but calloused hands. "It is just that the word of a Stark is not quite what it was--"

Cat growled, and the sound was mirrored by one of the serpents outside. _Fire swarmed in her belly, the three spires seemed a good enough perch...only Mother would not be pleased if she were to destroy something so simple…._ She jerked her mind away from Viserion's as if physically burned, stepping back from the Little Queen and blinking dumbly.

Daenerys Targaryen sat up straighter, gaze wary, and Cat sneered at her. "Do not even dare. Was it not a Targaryen to steal my aunt? To begin a war?"

Cat stepped closer, and Daario Naharis moved to intercept. Only the Mother of Dragons threw an arm to stop him, rising to meet Cat's chin and glare.

For one so little, it was amazing how much her presence held weight. "You do not speak to me in such a tone."

Cat snorted, tilting her head and jutting her chin out in childish defiance she hadn't felt since she were eight. "Trust in my word when I say I wish to see you on the Iron Throne in the stead of Tommen Lannister. Or don’t, Your Grace, for it is your choice to."

Daenerys Targaryen blinked, and then frowned. "You would swear yourself to me?"

Cat shook her head, and before the Little Queen could voice her indignation said, "But I have sworn myself to your cause, Daenerys Targaryen." Cat lifted a brow. "Or have you forgotten so easily?"

Daenerys Targaryen scowled, violet eyes flashing. Cat did not glance away as would have been proper, but instead held the Little Queen's glare with her own. The violet orbs took on a look of curiosity. "You and I. We are much alike."

Cat pushed down the urge to snort incredulously. "To be perfectly honest, Your Grace," she said, a bite to her tone that she couldn't hide. "We are nothing alike."

The rebuff was something that the Little Queen obviously wasn't expecting. As she searched for words, a man dressed in the colours of House Martell stepped up to them.

"Your Grace, my Lady," he greeted, and Cat knew him to be Trystane Martell. Daenerys Targaryen quickly composed herself, violet eyes softening on his form, a pleasant smile hiding her irritation.

"Prince Trystane," she greeted, dipping herself into a quick curtsy. Cat eyed the man; he had the similar looks that his uncle had been so renowned for--high, fine cheekbones, and a widows peak parting his dark hair. His dark eyes glanced once towards Cat, but her assessing glare must have dissuaded him from gawking; he jerked his eyes quickly away.

"Queen Daenerys," his tone with her was clipped; as if with thinly veiled anger. "It is a pleasure to finally see you." Cat's ears pricked up at that. Trystane Martell gave the Little Queen a shallow bow and threw his arm in the direction he had just come from. "My father wishes to meet you."

The tension the two created as they stared at one another was tangible, thick and humming with the promise of violence. Daenerys Stormborn was not a timid woman--if her conquering of three Free Cities were proof enough of that--so it surprised her when Cat decided that she'd had enough of their subtle power-plays, and stepped past them both, that the Little Queen begrudgingly glanced away and followed.

 

.

 

.

 

It was Aegon whom greeted her first, a smile and nod in her direction before turning his violet eyes to his aunt.

Prince Doran looked too thin to be in good health, but the old man still managed to hold himself with a regal air. His black locks were streaked with grey and his face marred by the signs of age, but his eyes were still sharp and attentive on the party before him. The smooth silk that clothed his form was soundless as he shifted forward to greet them.

"Ah, I have heard much of you, Your Grace." Prince Doran's voice was as thin as his bones, and Cat watched with idle fascination. "Any of House Targaryen are welcome here, for we are forever loyal to your family."

A girl, not much younger than Cat herself, stood to the left of the throne with Prince Trystane. Clad in rich reds and golds as brilliant as her hair, Cat did not need an introduction to know that she was a Lannister. Myrcella to be exact.

Daenerys had clued on quickly enough as well, silver-blonde brow rising. "Is that why you have a Lannister within your very halls?"

Myrcella glanced worriedly up from her hands, green eyes wide with panic. But it was the boy at her side that spoke out in her defence. "Lady Myrcella is my betrothed, Queen Daenerys. I would ask that you speak to her with the respect she deserves."

The Little Queen snorted, as if to show just the amount of respect she thought the girl deserved, and Cat spoke against the woman she'd just pledged her allegiance to.

"Myrcella Lannister was always kind to me, Your Grace," she lied easily. Myrcella had been kind, true, but she was also terribly cruel as Cat knew children to be. All eyes in the room turned upon her then, a new piece to the game to be pawned.

"And who, are you?" Prince Doran asked, greyed brow arching. Aegon Targaryen frowned at her, as did his aunt, most probably for two different reasons.

Cat fought the urge to swear and retreat back to where she'd been standing--behind Darrio Naharis (Gods knew he was nearly as tall was the Mountain). Instead, she met the Dornish Prince's expectant gaze.

The words were thick in her throat, and when they did slip past her lips they sounded choked. "I am Arya of House Stark, my Lord." It hurt nearly as much as remembering had, to claim her birth name.

Myrcella Lannister gasped, recognition shining in her face. "The world thought you dead."

Arya Stark snorted contemptuously. "And married to some Northern bastard or other, no doubt. There's not much truth to be found in rumours nowadays, Lady Lannister. I would not trust in it too much."

Princess Arianne laughed; dark eyes intent on Arya Stark's long face. "Well, aren't you something," she all but purred. Cat bristled at the tone; it was condescending and so utterly queen-like that Cat automatically disliked the curvaceous woman. Even sitting at her father's feet, Arianne Martell still managed to look down upon those standing opposite her.

She grinned at Cat, but Cat did not return the gesture. If Cat had been less proud, perhaps she would have. Would have tried to worm her way into their good-graces with flattery and promises; but Cat couldn’t bring herself to do so.

Arianne did not let Cat’s lack of reaction deter her. The smile stayed. It was simply redirected to one who returned it with their own. Aegon. Prince Doran inclined his head to the khaleesi, face solemn. “My honoured guests,” he began. Daenerys Targaryen drew herself straighter, violet eyes intent on the old prince’s face. “Be welcome within my walls and at my table. I extend to you my hospitality and protection in the light of the Seven.”

The Little Queen smiled and accepted his offer on behalf of those in her party, and told him that he was a gracious man.

Prince Doran smiled politely back, and the prat king butted in with his own pleasantries.

 

They were shown to the guests’ chambers, and the servants told them that they were to dine with the Martells that evening.

Lanna laid herself down upon Cat’s bed, but then sat up when Cat lingered by the window.

“What is wrong?” The blonde asked.

Cat glanced away from the sprawling city and to the blonde. “It is just…” Lanna stayed quiet, jade eyes intent on Cat’s. “I had thought that it would feel different somehow, being in Westeros again.”

Lanna grinned, a happy, pretty thing. “And you are secretly a Princess!” she exclaimed, coming up to her knees. “And you didn’t even tell me!”

Cat returned the woman’s playfulness. “It seemed to have slipped my mind, dear Lanna.”

The blonde sobered. “You have done much for me and my mother,” she said. There was a suspicious lit to her voice. Lanna was many things, but stupid and dull of wit was not one of them. “Why ever for?”

Cat could tell that this had been waiting on her tongue for a long while. She decided to indulge her. “Tyrion Lannister will be the heir to Casterly Rock,” she paused and corrected herself. “ _Is_ the heir to Casterly Rock. Therefore he will be a valuable ally in the war to come, and it will come if I have any say in it.”

Lanna sat still, green eyes sharp. “So I am a nothing more than a play piece in this grand game?”

Cat frowned. “You know that you are more than that to—’’

Lanna laughed. “I know, I know. So serious, Cat.” She leant forward and caught Cat’s slim hands in her own. “It is quite a smart plan, too.”

Cat nodded and bit her lip and slipped her hands out of the blonde’s own. Collecting her thoughts once more, she turned from the bed and stepped towards the gowns laid out upon the large oak table.

“I do not wish to sup with the Martells,” she told the woman on the bed. “Arianne seems to be as scheming as her father, and Trystane already hates Daenerys Targaryen—I am quite certain that they all distain her, for was it not _her children_ to murder their brother and son?—and those whom call her friend.” Cat ran a hand over the smooth Myrish silk and turned her nose up in disgust. “I will not wear this.” She turned back towards Lanna. “Do you want it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'll repost this chapter sometime, because this didn't turn out how I wished for it to.


	5. The Wolf of Skaagos

The frost bit at his fingers and nose, making him squint against the sleet. Osha said that he'd once been a prince, been called after his grandsire. Rickhard. Or something similar. But he was only Rick now. A wildling. Not some ponce with a crown and servants bowing to his every whim.

The men from the neighbouring village had wandered too close to where he and Osha had been staying the past moon, and he'd gone to investigate. This, now that he thought about it, was not the best idea he'd ever had.

But Shaggy was further up the valley, he could see; protecting Osha when he himself could not, so it did not really need so much energy fussing over.

"I told yous," came a rough, distinctly male tone. "The little fucker went this way."

Rick froze, ducking further into the ice-covered undergrowth. At least he'd thought that they were from the nearby clan. They did not speak his tongue, as all did on this rock, but instead it was something that felt familiar; as if he'd heard it once in a dream.

He ignored the shiver that wracked his skinny frame from the cold and listened more intently. He had the vantage point; he could make out their forms in the early morning light, but they couldn't get scent or hide of him.

The bickering lulled into growled whispers. The blade clutched in his hand felt heavy, and he wished not for the first time, that he had teeth and claws at his disposal.

A gruff, older tone. "You'd do well to remember that it is King Stannis who wants him," the noisy shuffling stopped as they all paused to listen. "Do not call the boy that while in my presence."

Osha was going to skin him when he got back. If. If he managed to lose these men and hike along the shore back to her.

He wasn't going to knowingly bring these men back. Rick did not know them, did not want to. But they looked fat, definitely more muscle on them than he'd seen on anyone in a while; they'd had food recently, no doubt.

Perhaps they had a boat? Maybe a camp nearby?

Either way, Shaggy hadn’t eaten in a while, and neither had he. Osha didn't want him eating man-flesh often, but the deer and shadowcats had dropped dangerously low in number during this winter; there was no other food.

The bickering started up once more.

Rick decided to leave them to it--they were too big and too many in number for him to possibly take on-- and slunk away quietly.

 

.

 

.

 

 

And he was right. Osha did very nearly skin him.

As it was, the smack along his ear dazed him and made him see stars. Rubbing the side of his head, Rick sat silently as his mother carried on as she almost always did when he slunk out in the early morn. Perhaps he shouldn't have told her what he'd seen. Too late to take back now in any case.

"Doncyou ever do that again! You could have died! They could have taken you, you stupid, stupid little boy!"

Rick heard Shaggy growl from where he lay beside the fire; a deep, gravelly thing that'd made grown men piss themselves.

Osha did not even glance at the direwolf, dark eyes locked onto Rick. "You don't even understand how dangerous it was, do you?"

Rick let his eyes drift from his wolf to her, defiance in every line of his body. He watched as her mouth pulled down and her eyes pinched. The fight left her body as she crouched before him, brown hair a tangle around her face.

He stayed still as she reached out with a gentle hand and tilted his long face towards her. "Please don' do that again, Rick. I made a promise, boy. And I don' want you dead." She ran a caloused finger down the bridge of his nose, long since broken and healed several times. "Promise me you won' go lookin' for trouble every time there's new people on Skaagos."

Rick cast his ice eyes over her face, and twisted his face into a grimace of guilt, but did not say anything. When he did not answer immediately, the grip on his chin tightened.

 _"Rickon…"_ the warning in her tone threatened another good smack coming his way.

Rick sighed, a plume of fog following. Osha tilted her head, waiting for the promise she was going to wring out of him.

Clicking his tongue, he apologized for sneaking off early to look around, but made no promise to never do it again. The clip against his ear was expected this time, but it still stung.

"Rickon, I _swear_ to any and _all_ gods, I will throw you into the sea if you don' promise me…"

Rick met her glare, and bit his lip. "I promise."

Osha frowned at him, not once believing it. "Liar," she told him softly, but pulled him into a warm hug. "You're gonna have to get better at lying, my boy, if you want to lie right to my face." Rick buried himself closer to the warmth she was offering, resting his chin on her bony shoulder. He felt her sigh, rather than heard it.

"It's gettin' colder, ain't it?" She asked him, and Rick nodded. The hunger was also getting worse, the pains waking him up in the night and persisting 'til morning.

Shaggy had lumbered closer, black coat brushing against them both. Rick disentangled himself from Osha, tangling his stubby, scarred fingers into the fur of the direwolf's shoulder and hauling himself against his warm ribs.

"Shaggy's hungry too," Rick muttered, own stomach whining in response.

Osha settled down beside the fire, hunching in on herself. "I know, Rick. I know."

They descended into silence--nothing but the sound of the flames licking away at the twigs and branches, and they own breathing--the snow bellowing outside their grove, coating the island in ice once more.

Winter was finally here.


	6. Sweet Jonquil

 

"Alayne, sweetling," came his sly tone. "Do go and wake Sweetrobin."

Alayne nodded demurely, hands clenched into her skirts. "Of course, Father."

She stood up from her chair by the warmth of the hearth and left.

Little Robert Arryn looked paler than usual, Alayne noted as she stepped into his poorly-lit rooms. Sweat slicked his dark curls to his head, his breath coming laboured and fast. A red welt marred his jaw, and his clothes were rumpled; as if he'd just been in a scuffle. Sansa knew that he'd only just had another fit, and turned angrily to the nearest maid.

"Why was I not informed that Lord Robert had an attack?"

The maid was an average thing, all smooth curly dark hair and a small chin, but the fear that lurked in her dark eyes as Sansa demanded an answer, that was something remarkable.

"I-well-I… M'lady, if you please," she began, placing the pitcher of water back onto the small table nearest to Sweetrobin's bed. "The Lord Baelish told me not to tell you when his Lordship Robert had one of his fits, m'lady Alayne." The wide eyes blinked owlishly at her. "He said not to make you worry, he did."

Alayne made a frustrated sound and sent them away.

Sweetrobin blinked up at her, not quite all there; the fit seemed to have exhausted him. "Alayne?" he asked, as if not sure it was truly she. Alayne nodded, blue eyes locked on his form.

"Do you want more time to get ready, Sweetrobin?" she returned softly as she seated herself by his legs on the bed. "Surely Father and Lord Willas would not mind, yes?" Sweetrobin nodded drowsily and she smoothed down his vest.

"Have you taken your medicine today?"

Sweetrobin nodded again, and his dark eyes finally settled on her. He frowned, the motion pinching his sallow face painfully. "I think I am well enough now, Alayne."

Sansa did not think the same. He looked thin enough to be considered sickly, and the fit he'd only just came out of did nothing to help. But still, now that she took time to dwell on it, Sansa did not think Littlefinger would take kindly to her cousin putting off meeting with Lord Willas and his little cousin for morning tea.

She nodded, muttered "Of course, my Lord" and helped him to his feet before hooking her arm with a skinny one of his and walking with him to the hall.

 

.

 

.

 

Alayne was seated to her father's left, much to Sweetrobin's dismay. He'd been adamant that she sat with him that morning, on the walk there.

But one did not argue with their father, no matter how false the title.

Petyr Baelish's smile was ever so sly as he spoke with the Tyrells across the large, oak table. Sansa made a point to keep her eyes on her food, mulling over the theory she'd had swirling in her mind for the past year.

She knew that Littlefinger was surely going to poison Sweetrobin and replace him with pretty, if somewhat dull, Harrold Hardyng. This was not news. It had been the plan from the start; they'd discussed it at length not all that long ago.

But now that talk across the Narrow Sea carried back whispers of the Dragon Queen and her consort--a man naming himself King Aegon Tagaryen the sixth--this no doubt, threw him some. Why marry the weathy heiress off to someone like Harry Hardyng when he make her a Queen of both the North and south? After the failed conquest of the stormlands by the Targaryen king, everything had gone queerly quiet.

Littlefinger was nervous. Not many would be able to distinguish the signs from his usual starts; but Sansa could. The twitching of his fingers over his glass of wine, and the glances he sent herself gave him away; as if he were afraid she would disappear into dust with the rest of her family. He knew.

The quiet wasn't for true; something was happening and he was not privy to it. _And he does not like that at all_ , she thought.

"Alayne, sweetling," said man brought her from her observations. "Do eat."

Alayne glanced up from her hands, the prettiest demure smile she could muster plastered on her face. She let it slip a second after flashing it to him. "I do not feel well, Father. I'm afraid I cannot finish my meal." It the most blatant of lies, and she was sure everyone at the table knew it.

She remembers, way off in another life, that her little sister had said something similar to another father after running around in a yard with another brother. They'd ambushed her with snowballs and laughter.

Littlefinger wasn’t privy to her thoughts, and for that she was glad. He returned the smile, more out of necessity than genuine feeling. "That's quite alright, dearest." He gazed at her for a moment, and Sansa did not squirm, did not flinch.

She felt the guests' eyes on her as she stared him down, hands stationary in her lap and face a mask.

A grin. "You may excuse yourself, my dear."

Alayne smiled and said "Thank you", standing up as all the men did as well.

Lord Willas offered to escort her back to her chambers, ever the gallant man. Alayne did not have to turn his offer down, for Littlefinger was already up and walking her out of the hall.

Sansa kept her back straight and strides long as he walked her to the archway. Littlefinger halted there, and Sansa paused too.

"I shall see you after breakfast, dearest." He told her, kissed her cheek and spun back into the hall.

 

.

 

.

 

Sansa had no intention of seeking Petyr Baelish out of her own volition. If he wanted her company, he'd find her; and he always did.

Instead, she tucked herself away in the library.

Her footsteps carried as she stepped inside; it was not as big as those at Winterfell had been, but she did not care for reading at that moment. The Eyrie did not have a true sept, and so she could not sit in there looking for solitude.

Being surrounded by quiet, _still_ tomes was somewhat comforting to the constant intimidation Littlefinger offered. Sansa seated herself by the windowsill; the quaint little book filled to the brim with children's songs and tales still lying upon the rough stones. She lifted it into her lap, long fingers gliding across the faded cover as she thought.

 _There was a time when I loved these songs_ , she thought, melancholy pinching her features. _A time when I thought that perhaps I could make them true_.

The bold writing of some maester or other ran across the page as she opened the book.

_“A fool and a knight?” said Jonquil. “I have never heard of such a thing.”_

_“Sweet lady,” said Florian, “all men are fools, and all men are knights, where women are concerned.”_


	7. Chapter 7

Cat found Sunspear much to her liking.

Having the bastard as her constant shadow garnered her all sorts of looks, but the attention did not bother her nearly as much as it would have across the Narrow Sea. It was known within Sunspear and the Water Gardens that the Targaryens had landed. She was relatively safe here, a feeling she had not had in quite a long while, and though the thought had crossed her mind numerous times as they wandered through the many dry, sand-covered streets; she did not attempt to lose him in the maze that surrounded the towers. Mostly because he was never more than two feet from her.

He kept silent, brooding over something the entire time; loud, heavy footsteps of one wearing steel armour for every one of hers. At least, he kept from voicing his thoughts aloud until Cat began to lift herself up the walls by the uneven stones.

"You shouldn't do that, m'lady. Ain't safe." He called, disgruntled. She'd just made his day difficult when it really had no reason to be.

Cat snorted and pulled herself up higher. "What do you care if I break my neck? Go back to your precious prat of a king."

There was a window ledge just within her reach, and she gripped the battered stone with the tips of her fingers. The bastard grunted in response, but she heard nothing of his retreat back to the castle. When she maneuvered herself to once again face the street--arse firmly planted on the stone, legs swinging--she saw that he had not budged from where she'd left him.

The look on his face made her smirk in spite. He was thinking again, with that same stupid, agonized look on his face; just as he had when they were children.

Someone was bound to open the window at her back soon; it was too achingly hot not to do so.

That encounter was bound to be interesting.

His gruff baritone carried up to her, annoyance lacing it a thickly as condescension had hers. "Why are you being so difficult?"

Cat raised a brow, smirk gone. "I'll think you'll find that there's a degree of difficulty in dealing with me."

The bastard got looks from the men and women who passed, who then glanced up to where he was shouting only to scurry quickly out of sight. Cat did not blame them, he looked menacing in his steel armour and long sword strapped to his side; arms folded and stance wide.

"I figured that, m'lady," came his voice, a touch sly; teasing. "But that still don't explain why you're wanting to climb the rooftops of Sunspear."

Cat shrugged and opened her mouth to tell him to fuck off, but stayed her tongue. Since she'd jumped behind the eyes of that dragon, her fondness for heights had appeared. It was an urge that itched in the back of her skull, and sitting up here gave her time to think; though for some reason the bastard had suddenly found his voice to interrupt her with.

Frowning, Cat thought on how she used to jump behind the eyes of her mangy, clawed counterparts all the time while living as Blind Beth, and other times as Cat of the Canals, perhaps once or twice as Mercy. But she had not known she could do it with something much larger, like one of the Targaryen dragons.

It had startled her, confused her, thrown her off balance--

\--the window opened with a _click._

Cat fell back into the room with a yelp, legs near her face as she rolled upright once more. Crouching, she came face-to-face with a black-haired, green-eyed little boy; shirtless with a round belly, he frowned down at her.

"What were you doing on my windowsill?" he asked, jade eyes confused. Cat stood, painting a pleasant smile for him.

"Hiding," she told him in a whisper, grey eyes wide.

"That's a stupid place to hide," he told her with a child's authority that could not be argued with. "Everyone can see you up there." The boy's frown took on both an excited and suspicious tone. Smart, she thought. Not to blindly trust strangers.

Cat reached into her pockets for her coin pouch.

"Here, have this." She placed it in his chubby little hand--the gold clinking against one another--stepping past him and out his front door. It was not hers, but she did not think the child would mind. Cat had finally found a way around her escort, and she was feeling generous.

She could vaguely make out the bastard's shouts from the window as she left.

Good luck to him finding her for the rest of the day.

 

.

 

.

 

He did manage to find her again just as the sun was setting. Cat clapped, grinning all the while as he stomped up to her like a child. The warmth of the day was seeping away into the darkness as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving only a nipping chill in its wake.

Ser Waters was, in one word, angry. Angry at her leaving him and exploring Sunspear without his protection.

Cat put an end to his raging before it even began.

"There are ten brothels here, in this part of town," she started, and he paused; frowning down at her. "Well, one and ten if that old, fat man had actually admitted to it. It was blatantly obvious; I wouldn't even be surprised if the late Oberyn Martell had an unclaimed bastard or two there."

"Why are you telling me this?" Irritation was present in his entire body, he shifted from foot to foot as he stood before her.

"Because," she told him, as if it were blatantly obvious. "It's information." Cat then proceeded to tell him every other detail she recalled of her finds, a heavy sort of weight lifting from her chest. This was the norm for her, to go forth and collect information and report back. She would have to break this habit. But for now, just for today, she'd indulge herself.

It made her uneasy, the freeness with which her tongue formed the words as she looked at him. That he listened intently, as if he actually cared, both confused and irritated her for a reason she could not place.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him why he cared, but she pushed the thought away; she had a feeling that she would not be pleased with the answer.

 

The dreams that night confused her even more. She had not had wolf-dreams in years, not since she was new to the changing of faces; not since she was Arya Stark.

But she supposed that this was bound to happen the moment she stepped foot on Westerosi soil.

 

_It was snowing now, and her claws dug into the sleet with ease. Her littler cousins followed behind her with yips and growls. There were men, dead men, with those twin bridges sewn upon their chests. She knew that they were the ones that had slain her brother._

_Her pack fed on the carcass with glee. There weren't nearly enough deer to keep them all fed anymore, but every now and again a man carcass would appear near the river she'd pulled mother out of._

_Ragged ears pricked forward,_ Arya _strained to listen. And there, the sound of men and the scent of home._

 

Cat awoke with a start, sitting up so quickly that she jostled Lanna. The blonde grunted, and her jade eyes flickered open in dim light of the dying candle by the bed. "Bad dreams again, Cat?" she asked softly.

Cat swallowed and slowly calmed her breathing, nodded once. Lanna rested a hand on Cat's arm for a moment, and then removed it with a pat and a stroke of her thumb.

When Cat's pulse was once again slow, she lay back down beside a now sleeping Lanna.

Cat focused on the sound of the woman's steady breathing, using it to anchor herself to the now. But she would not be able to sleep for the rest of the night.

 

.

 

.

 

The three eldest Sand Snakes had returned from their forced visit of the Water Gardens that noon she'd spent talking to Ser Waters. From what Cat could glean from whispered conversations in the halls, they'd been sent there shortly before Aegon Targaryen had failed. Word had then come that Daenerys Stormborn had a proposition for him.

Cat snorted, rubbed her nose. Her steel eyes did not leave the servants as they gossiped, not until they'd served the fruit and bread and retreated back to the kitchens.

She wished for Lanna's company. With her, she was simply Cat and not some dainty princess needing to be cooped up inside all day. The Little Queen had told her quite clearly that she was not to go wandering about the city without a guard again, and since then she had mysteriously found little time to herself.  

Aegon Targaryen lifted his eyes from his cup from across the oaken table and grinned at her. Cat narrowed her eyes at him. The grin widened until teeth flashed. Cat flicked her eyes away and around the table.

Tyene Sand sat at her cousin Arianne's left, chatting quietly with her, the very picture of the Maiden herself. Cat instantly misliked her; everything she did was false. The dress she wore was white and soft, all innocence and purity. _Lies._ Her wicked green eyes gave her away; she smiled as if she knew how the world would end; as if she would be the one to end it.

Ellaria Sand, once Oberyn Martell's paramour, sat beside her; long black hair tied back in an eloquent braid, and chin held high. Her brood were seated sat at her side. Prince Doran sat at the head of the table, his son, Prince Trystane, to his left. There was an underlying tension that rubbed Cat's skin like sandpaper.

 _Just like at that house with the red door_ , she thought. _If things continue as they are it will not end well_.

Using her nails to pick at the smooth wood, Cat glowered at her food. The dress Lanna had managed to talk her into itched, and she fought the urge to fidget. Daenerys Targaryen was all pleasantries despite the tension, giving an equally pleasant and believable smile to those not trained in telling the difference.

The prat king seemed to find it amusing, and Cat decidedly...Did not.

Didn't he understand how badly this could turn out? Be he a son of Elia Martell or not.

Cat scowled over at him. Aegon grinned back.

 

The morning passed without incident--surprisingly, disappointingly--and Cat was beginning to feel restless. Nothing was happening, she was no closer to her sister, and there was still a Baratheon on the throne (though, to Cat, Baratheon or Targaryen, it made no difference).

Cat realised, not for the first time, that she was just a piece in the silver-queen's game; as much as Lanna and her mother were a way to one up the Lannisters for Cat. Speaking of Lions, she thought as she came to the gardens. Tyrion Lannister sat on a bench speaking with the Sailor's Wife, and Cat paused to watch. His golden curls were only a few inches shorter than her own, and his distorted face sported a brilliant grin that was directed at his wife. She'd re-introduced them the day before, and then left them to their memories. Lanna did not treat her any differently, and for that Cat was grateful. The bastard, however, seemed to have found his cock. Cat decided that she liked the change; it was much better talking to a person rather than a wall.

When she prodded and poked in just the right way, he'd burr up and snap at her with harsh words, much like a wounded dog.

Cat tip-toed her way along the raised gardens that stood as sentries to the walkways. A heavier gait followed her as she made her way around the minute gardens in Sunspear. Eventually the bastard sighed, the sound more a growl than anything else. "What'r you doin'?"

Cat shrugged elegantly, turning to face him. His stubble had grown out into an almost-beard, and it made him look almost uncomfortably like the old king. Almost. Cat flicked the thought away quickly.

She turned her face from him in favour to glare over at the Little Queen and Ser Barristan. They'd been gossiping together and with a few others more often than Cat liked. Sometimes it was the Unsullied Grey Worm that she bent heads with, other times the woman-child Missandei. But never once was it the old Mormont knight.

Plots that she had no privy to were not new; but she knew without a doubt that if they involved taking the throne out from under Princess Myrcella, blood would ensue.

Cat also noticed that Aegon Targaryen and Jon Connington weren't aware of these hushed murmurings. Cat at least noticed. But then, she couldn't help but pay attention to her surroundings. Not doing so in the past had nearly cost her her life.

She had debated on telling them, and then settled against it. Cat owed them nothing.

"Lady Arya, may I speak with you?"

Cat knew that tone from the day of their arrival. With a roll of her eyes at the bastard, Cat turned to face Arianne Martell.

The Princess of Dorne stood before them now, arm interlinked with Tyene Sand's own. Both women were clad in thin, flowing shifts that would have been comfortable for the heat.

Cat let a pleasant mask slip over her, and offered the Martell a smile. "Of course, Lady Arianne."

Arianne Martell mimicked the motion, but Cat could tell that there was no true feeling behind it. The woman gestured to the knight hovering behind Cat. "He may be dismissed."

Cat turned back to him, considered and then shook her head. "I don't think King Aegon nor the Little Queen would like that."

Arianne gave her a queer look, dark brows twisting into a frown. "He's only an escort, surely?" Cat weighed that response, considered the underlying meanings. "Do not play coy with me," Tyene Sand raised a brow and twisted her head in a way that said 'How dare you'. "You know perfectly well that I'm their prisoner."

Arianne smirked, but her dark eyes flicked back to the bastard knight behind her. "Are you willing to hear me out, at least?"

"I am," she allowed, but frowned at Ser Waters. "I cannot speak for this one, though." _I do not know if I can trust him. Not yet_.

Arianne Martell snorted, a hand coming up to flick a lock of ebony hair from her face. "Then he will stay here."

Cat shrugged, ignored the bastard knight's protests and joined the Dornish Princess in her walks around the halls and gardens.

 

.

 

.

 

The conversation turned out to be everything Cat thought it would be.

Arianne Martell wanted sweet, little Myrcella Baratheon on the throne. Queen Daenerys obviously would not let that particular plot come to pass...And well, if the Dragon Queen were to simply, die of _illness..._ Well, wouldn't that just be perfect?

Cat may not have been Eddard Stark, but she had no intentions of turning on the Little Queen. Not when she still did not have her sister or home back, and Daenerys Targaryen was her only guaranteed path.

Tyene Sand was as adapt at poisons as her father had been, and Cat had no doubt that it would be her whom would do it.

"I'll not," Cat said, and she watched as Arianne Martell frowned. "Should you make a play for the Iron Throne, though, I'll not stop you." A pleased grin settled over the Dornish Princess's face at that, and she patted Cats' arm once.

"I knew I liked you for a reason."

Cat deigned not to answer and was glad to be away from them.

 

Ser Waters gave her a glare as she returned to his side, and she grinned toothily in return. "What did she ask?" His voice was suspicious, and rightly so. But still…

Cat snorted, turned to return his glare with an icy one of her own. "You forget yourself, ser," she snapped. Gendry's neck and face flushed. "I do not have to answer to anyone, let alone you." Each word was phrased to cut, and they did the trick quite well, if the truth be told. His strong jaw clenched, and his blue eyes flashed with anger. Ours is the Fury indeed.

But he let out a breath, relaxed his hands until his fists loosened. Cat smirked. "Stop it." Her face contorted into a frown, and he continued. _"Why_ do you do it?" The bastard stepped forward, and Cat regarded him warily. She had just realised what it was about him that was irritating her; he was giving off mixed signals. Ser Waters used his height to fence her in and assert himself, but his throat was bared and he kept his gaze low. Like a dog would a wolf, came an unbidden notion from the depths of her thoughts.

The fact that the garden's stone perimeter was digging hard into her lower back should have told her how much this situation bothered her. Cat needed to move, move, _move._ Get away. But _Arya_ stood there, towered over by a man that was still half a boy the last time she'd seen him, since she'd known him.

"Answer me." The authority in his tone made her bristle and flick her eyes up to his.

"I don’t know what you mean." Cat hissed, and pushed down Arya's urge to tell this man everything. He did not move, only waited for an answer Cat refused to give. Her fingers dug into the stone at her back as she debated whether or not to simply threaten him with death and leave.

But his gaze softened, and Cat blinked at the sudden change. "I think that you do, m'lady."

Cat snorted. "Better not do that," she muttered. "Think, I mean. Might hurt yourself."

He was long and broad enough that he blocked the sun from her eyes, and close enough now that she saw herself reflected in his eyes. So of course she saw the slip in his calm mask, watched as it dipped into annoyance and _something else_.

He lowered his head until his nose was a breath away from hers, and she let him. The surge of familiarity made her open her mouth to speak.

Whatever she was going to say was cut off by a cough.

Ser Waters jerked back as if burned, and Cat whipped her head around to face the source.

Jon Connington and the prat king stood before them, and Cat fought the urge to lower her head in embarrassment. Instead, she kept her eyes everywhere but on the man an arms length away and Lord Connington's visibly angered features.

Cat gave them a mock bow, not quite a curtsy, and it lacked most of the sincerity of a man's bow of respect. "Your Grace, my Lord."

Aegon Targaryen kept glancing between she and Ser Waters, and Cat felt heat creep up her neck. But, thankfully, the Dragon Prince did not say a thing about what he had almost walked in upon. "We are going to sup with the Martells tonight, my Lady…" Something passed over his face and Cat fought with the need to rage at all three men. "My Queen aunt has bid us leave within the week, also. She grows restless."

Cat nodded, crossing her arms. "Of course. Her Grace should not have to wait for her revenge."

Aegon looked as if he wanted to say more, but held his tongue after a second of consideration. He nodded curtly, "I'll see you at dinner, then."

Cat offered him a half-smile. "Of course, Your Grace."

 

.

 

.

 

_Her fur was coated in snow, and her cousins sang a sorrowful song around her. The bogs to the north kept she and her pack near where her girl had left her, and nearer to the band of men led by the mother-that-was-not._

_She could not go any further south; there were men with spears and sharp arrows waiting to the west. She was big enough that the men could not hurt her much, but her smaller cousins could be taken and slain and skinned as easily as her sweet tempered sister had. Arya turned her head at the sound of footfalls and the smell of man._

_She flashed her teeth at the one with fire in his hand, ears pinned to her massive skull. She was not afraid. Her littler cousins gathered at her back, snarling in fear._

_Cat quickly realised that this wasn't a dream, and pulled Nymeria in. The direwolf paused, and then welcomed and molded to Cat's thoughts so easily it almost hurt._

_Thoros of Myr stood alongside Lem Lemoncloak, a sword dipped in flame at his fingertips, and they looked frightened as rabbits._

_Cat could barely keep to her own persona anymore, what with Arya and Nymeria raging and climbing over and with one another to drown her out. Nymeria lowered her head, snapped at her cousins. The wolves backed off from the two men quickly, and the she-wolf's golden eyes returned to the men._

_"Didn't Ned Stark's girl have a direwolf?" Lem asked, and Arya strained forward. Cat tried vainly to push her down, failed as Nymeria jerked forward to sink her teeth into a particularly stupid cousin who'd thought the men to be food._

_The screeching yelp and the metallic tang of blood in her mouth brought Arya forward, made her cautiously glance to Thoros of Myr and grin as best she could with this form._

_Thoros paused, dark eyes narrowed as he considered the beast before him. He let out a laugh that startled the average wolves at her back, and made Arya crow. "My, my, my, Lady Stark. Back from the dead?"_

_Nymeria bowed her head to the ground, a lean leg tucked under her strong chest, and when she rose once more, the men were grinning._

 

 

 

 

And Arya Stark woke up for the first time in five years.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for taking so goddamn long with this. And as it is, I feel like I'll go back over this and fix it up later. It's waay too short for a chapter of this fic so yeah, there'll be more shortly.

 

The battle was long, loud, and bloody. Cat sat atop her warhorse, biting the inside of her cheek as she waited with the Imp, and the bastard on his own steed beside her.

The black flames that poured from Drogon's maw engulfed several hundred men from Storm's End, Daenerys Stormborn atop his back. The battle had turned and Daenerys Targaryen had been called into the fray, leaving Cat to watch, a mixture of adrenaline and curiosity running through her. The battle, after the introduction of Balerion the Black Dread come again, was fairly short if Cat did say so herself. Shifting in her saddle, Cat reigned in her horse as said drake landed close enough that the ground shook. The Imp had troubles also, and managed to bring his pony to heel after a fair amount of coaxing and curses. He shot her a grin.

The beast's scales were glossy, and contrasted vividly against the mane of his rider. Daenerys Targaryen slipped off of Drogon, her long, silver-blonde braid tinkling with each step taken.

The Little Queen dictated to the captives what would become of them if they did not choose to follow her, and few were executed. Cat wasn't sure if she despised them for their turn-cloak nature, but a sickly feeling pooled in her stomach nonetheless.

 

.

.

 

The stones of Storm's End were cold, unforgiving and unwelcoming.

Conquering was an unpleasant business, Cat thought, as she was lead past the wounded and dead. It stank of blood and death, the chill of winter reaching this far south and slowing the decay of the bodies. It didn't take away the smell of it though. It had been two hours since they had taken the Baratheon stronghold, but the smell of burning flesh lingered.

The war council that took place directly after the battle was something to see. Ser Jorah Mormont's armour was still bloodied, fresh cuts and bruises littering his skin, but he stood to attention and listened quietly. The others of Daenerys Stormborn's commanders were tucked in around the main table, while Cat stayed by the large, old window and stared out at the sea. It looked cold and cruel--the waves barging against the jagged rocks--much the same as the castle's walls. Cat decidedly disliked Storm's End.

"Lady Arya?"

Cat blinked, focused her eyes on Aegon Targaryen. "Yes?"

He stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back. "Was this your first battle?" There was a hesitance to his tone as he came to sit opposite her--those at the war table no longer speaking of war-- and Cat frowned at him, reading correctly into his words.

"Are you asking if I am well?"

The prat king's eyebrows rose, but Cat did not take her eyes from his face. It was exactly what he was asking. "Are you well, Lady Arya?" He asked clearly.

Cat tilted her head, considering the question. "I have been surrounded by death since I was nine years old," she said after a beat. "One battle will not upset my, ah, delicate sensibilities."

Aegon Targaryen snorted at her. "You will not let me live that down, will you?"

Cat laughed at him, drawing the glare of Lord Connington in the corner. "No." She rose and he followed suit, hands flexing at his sides.

Cat side-eyed him as they walked to her chambers. There were banners sporting the sun and spear of House Martell hanging from the walls in some places, beside the three-headed dragons. It sparked the question she'd forgotten to ask days ago.

"How was Princess Arianne?" she asked, and tucked her hands behind her back with casual grace. "I hear--"

"She was fine." There was a tense line to him, and Cat frowned.

"I was simply teasing, Your Grace," she returned, pointedly not looking at him. "I did not intend to entirely offend."

Aegon Targaryen snorted with mirthless laughter. "Entirely, of course, being much too far."

Cat scowled now, stopped walking altogether. "Why are you like this?"

"Like what, my Lady?"

"You're being an arse over a simple question!"

Aegon spun to face her, violet eyes wild. "How dare you, I am--"

"What? A king?" Cat sneered. "You're no king of mine--"

Her words were cut off with the hard press of his mouth against her own, and her eyes widened when he pulled back to stare at her.

Cat blinked, licked her lips and saw as he lowered his eyes to watch the movement. "Why did you do that?"

Aegon opened his mouth to answer, but Cat threw up a hand to cover it. "No," she snapped, and knew that there was a crease forming between her brows. _"Why_ did you do that, you _fool?"_

Aegon Targaryen jerked back at the insult, and Cat let her hand slip from his face. "I did that," he said, and glanced down at her kiss-bruised lips, but made no move to step any closer; fearful that she may actually hit him this time. His fears would not be ungrounded. "Because, though you are a deliberately disagreeable creature--"

Cat's brows rose in disbelief. "Disagreeable? I--"

"--Would you let me finish, woman?" Cat's lips thinned into a disgruntled line, but she quieted. Aegon continued. "I find you pleasing." When she did not interrupt again, he went on with confidence. "Everything about you makes me happy, Lady Arya--"A lie. She knew for a fact that her abrasive persona put him off most days."--I wish to keep you by my side."

Cat let her face fall into a mask. This was not allowed to happen. They needed Dorne's support. "It can't."

Aegon nodded, a little flustered. "But it does. And--"

 _"No."_ Aegon stopped mid-sentence, confused. Cat stepped back, her back now touching her tent opening. "You have just disgraced you betrothed, Aegon Targaryen," she told him, and shook her head when he started to speak over her. "And while you and she may have come to an agreement, you did so with a _Stark_ girl." Cat watched as realisation dawned on him, and detachedly, she recognised that this was a comical situation indeed. "This was a simple kiss and can be nothing more than that," she stressed. Cat did not plan on getting on Dorne's bad side, let alone Princess Arianne's.

The door beneath her swung open, and Cat stepped forward, and nearly into him. Her only saving grace was that he stepped back in time.

"I do not care if you find me pleasing," Cat told him, and stepped into her rooms, ignoring Lanna's inquisitive stare. "To do what you suggest is to start a war, Your Grace. And you can’t win this one without their aid."

Aegon Targaryen looked, for the better lack of a word, gutted; and if Cat allowed herself to feel in that moment, she would probably feel regret or something similar to embarrassment for him. "O-of course, my Lady," he said, and quickly bowed. "I shall not bother you with these sentiments again."

Cat nodded in return, breathed in deeply. "Thank you, King Aegon."

He turned and fled down the maze of tents and dwellings as she closed the flap. When Cat opened her eyes, Lanna was still staring, she could see, from the corner of her eyes, though her face was turned away.

"Did the King just _propose_ to you, Cat?"


	9. Porcelain, Ivory, Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hands steady, Sansa does something she does not regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooo boy   
> So haha, been a while huh  
> I'm uploading this from a phone so sorry about any mistakes. I'll be uploading another chapter in a few days too, and I'm working on a few other fics after some prompting comments.   
> So yeah, ciao!

"Would it not be an advantageous match, Father?"

Though Sansa's hair had already begun to grow out its true colour, Lord Baelish still insisted that she call him ' _Father_ '.  
"Not nearly as much as you think it would." He responded, grey-green eyes never leaving the letter clutched between his fingers.  
Sansa frowned. "But-"  
"You've heard of the Dragon Queen by now, surely, for the smallfolk talk."  
Thrown, Sansa blinked owlishly, but nodded all the same. The Queen from Across the Sea, as they called her, had recently Landed in Dorne.  
"She has a nephew with her," said he. "He is her heir, and you would be The Queen, and your sons Kings, should you wed him instead."  
"But Winterfell, my Lord-"  
Petyr Baelish gave her a reprimanding look. "You're thinking too small again, sweetling." He rose, moved closer to the hearth. "A simple match with a Tyrell wouldn't do," he mused, hands clasped behind his back. "Neither would Sweetrobin nor Lord Harry."  
Sansa licked her lips. "What are we to do then, Father?"  
Petyr Baelish turned around once more, and reached for her. Sansa obeyed. Nevermind the fact that she was of the same height as he by now, she lay her head down all the same.  
He stroked her hair and cheek as he spoke. Sansa pushed down the revulsion coiling low in her belly.  
His tone was low, melodic as he spoke. "Tonight you will give Sweetrobin his medicine," said he, fingers carding themselves through her hair. "And then you will bring him to me in the High Hall."  
Sansa shivered. "And then, my Lord?" She asked, lifting her head from his thin shoulder to look at him wonderingly. Sansa knew the answer, of course; she wasn't stupid.  
Littlefinger indulged her, fingers insistent in her hair. "And then, sweetling," he murmured. "He will have a terrible fall and you will be a step closer to your crown."

.  
.

Sansa had only a few hours to orchestrate the event she wanted. A few precious hours in order to be free.  
Lord Harry was easy to find, and even easier to charm, much to Sansa's dissatisfaction.   
Sansa pulled Harry the Heir in close, whispered for him to meet her in the High Hall that night, and offered The Lord a demure smile when he stole a kiss from her. She ignored the part of her that demanded she slap him for his brazenness.   
Sansa spun away from him, and went in search of her little cousin.  
Only a few hours.  
.  
.

That her hands were not shaking made her wonder.  
Sansa's hands had been shaking when Lord Stark had been executed, and again when the news of Robb and Mother had reached her.  
And yet...  
Sansa stood before the Moon Door, feet still braced and arms still outstretched; and yet her hands did not shake.  
Perhaps they should have.  
Dear Harry was sweet in the gentle way he coaxed Sansa from the edge of the sheer drop, having since given up trying to revive Sweetrobbin's still, pale form.   
"H-he, he poisoned Sweetrobbin-" Sansa stuttered, playing the part of the shocked maiden.  
Sansa was alive, safe. She knew this, and also knew that this was a plan of Littlefinger's, the poisoning of his Lord.  
Sansa knew she was safe now. Her little cousin was not however, and when she chanced a look over at little Robert, Sansa did not feel faint.   
Harrold Hardyng's strong arms were draped over Sansa's shoulders, a small comfort. "Shhh, Lady Alayne, it is okay."  
Sansa sniffed, wiped away a shed tear and slipped out from under Lord Hardyng's embrace.  
She licked her lips, watched as his brown eyes followed the movements. "I am afraid that I- I have been forced to lie to you since I've known you, my Lord."  
Harry frowned in confusion, and Sansa glanced down at her pale, still- steady, hands. "Pardon, my Lady?"  
She made sure to raise her eyes slowly, as if hesitant. "Lord Baelish was not my father," said she, softly, demurely. She stepped back and was pleased when he followed. "And my true name is not Alayne."  
Harrold Hardyng held out a hand that Sansa knew she was suppose to take. Instead, she considered it a moment; this entire arrangement had only be brought about by Littlefinger; Sansa could still leave, forge her own path. But then, this particular path best suited her needs; a comfortable life with a kind, gentle Lord. A life back home, in Winterfell, once Lord Harry claimed it back for her. Her home.  
Sansa took his outstretched hand, tangling her fingers with his own. Her hands still did not falter.

  
"My name is not Alayne," she continued, stepping closer, steely eyes never leaving his. "I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

 


	10. Chapter 10

Tommen Baratheon no longer sat the Iron Throne, the messenger read.  
Her Grace, Queen Daenerys, had taken the city.  
Cat sat across from her uncle Edmure Tully, his Frey wife no where to be found.  
His blue eyes pierced her, scrutinising every movement. "And you have arranged for the Starks to stay as Kings in the North, correct?"  
Cat shifted in her seat. "I've arranged for my elder sister Sansa to take Robb's place, yes."  
The Lord of Riverrun shook his head. "No one knows of Sansa's whereabouts, or even if she still lives, niece-"  
"The Eyrie, actually."  
Edmure Tully blinked. "Pardon?"  
Cat sighed, sat up straighter; the men on either side of her did so as well. "Her Grace, the Queen, has sources that say my sister is currently residing in The Eyrie."  
It was by the grace of the Queen that Cat had escorts too now; a young bloodrider and the bastard, two that she could trust. It irritated Cat to no end.  
Her uncle was quiet. Cat pushed on. "Please my Lord," she said, voice solemn. "You know I would not ask it of you had I the men."  
Edmure shook his head, mouth pulled down in an expression that Cat recalled from her childhood; Sansa had often made that face at her. "I've only just gotten Riverrun back, Arya, to ask this of my men..."  
Cat stood, watched as her uncle fumbled to do the same. Tone hard, Cat said, "Ten good men is all I ask, Lord Tully. Ten good men and I shall return with your Queen."  
Edmure Tully pinched the bridge of his nose, but began to nod. "Of course, niece. Okay."   
Cat breathed in an excited gasp, nodded vigorously. "My thanks to you, my Lord."  
They shook hands on it, and Lord Edmure excused himself to start preparations.

  
Cat slouched dramatically in her seat, and Ser Waters snorted.   
She rose a brow and he shrugged.   
"How do you propose we get past the first gate, should The Lord of the Eyrie not decide to humour us, m'lady?"  
Cat had thought of that. "Good thing we have dragons, then."  
The young bloodrider pulled a face. "They are Khaleesi's," said he, adamant in his loyalty. "They would not answer to you."  
Cat shrugged in reply. "Of course," she returned. "I meant that Her Grace would surely help us in retrieving a potential ally."

  
The bloodrider nodded, but the bastard narrowed his eyes.   
Cat smiled in return.

.  
.

The Lord of the Eyrie, once a little boy named Arryn, was now a man of Hardyng.   
And yet Cat's party was to be greeted in the High Hall by neither. Interesting.   
Cat remembered her courtly manners, simply bowed and thanked the knight that came to greet them.  
Dressed in her riding leathers still, hair unkempt and dirty, Cat somehow still managed a simper that sounded half-genuine.   
She could feel Ser Waters' silent amusement beside her and pushed down the urge to snarl.

  
When they were finally met by The Lord of The Eyrie, it wasn't to him Cat's eyes were drawn.  
The woman at his side was pale, as if taken ill by something. Her thin, high cheek bones and full red lips only accentuated that fact. Her hair; a muddy, dirty brown at the ends, was growing through with its true, rich red at the roots.  
When the woman finally looked up from her gloved hands, she scrutinised Cat in an instant-just as Cat had she- with deep, Tully-blue eyes.  
"Sansa." Cat breathed, and at that the woman frowned, soft features pulling together in confusion.  
"Arya?" Sansa stepped forward, to the surprise of the Lord beside her. "My sister- Arya Stark?"  
Cat's chest felt tight at the name. As if she couldn't catch her breath. Opening her mouth, Cat found she couldn't speak either, the words catching at the back of her throat.   
She settled for nodding quickly, tears stinging her eyes with genuine emotion in the first time in what felt like eons.   
"I-I'm-" Cat's words became muffled in Sansa's clean dress as her sister's arms enveloped her in an embrace.   
Cat was far from clean though, and she knew that Sansa's soft, beautiful dress would bear the smudges of dirt and sweat after.

  
Cat wondered if her sister would care that she smelt of horses and sweat, because all Cat could smell now was the flower-scented soaps in Sansa's hair.


	11. Chapter 11

"The lords of the Westerlands will be marching upon Kingslanding."

Cat glanced up from her food, straight into the gaze of her sister. "Then you must send men to aid the Targaryens." Cat said quickly.

Sansa rose a thin brow in response, placing the open letter next to her plate. "I think you'll find I have to do no such thing," she replied curtly. "And besides, it is not my army to send."

  
Cat ground her teeth. "You are the Queen in the North, Sansa," she snapped right back. "Anything north of the neck is yours to do with as you please."

  
Sansa pursed her lips, and cast her icy gaze to her husband. "What say you, my Lord?"

  
Cat glanced between the two.

  
Lord Harry reddened under the women's glares. Quickly swallowing his wine, he smiled at his wife.  
"If it would keep the new trust your sister has fostered between us and the Dragon Queen," he began carefully. "Would it not be in our best interests to go to her aid?"

  
Sansa huffed, and glanced away.

Cat felt like crowing, but settled for a smirk in stead. She turned to her good-brother, eyes bright.  
"You will ride out to King's Landing then, my Lord?"

  
Lord Harry nodded quickly, eager to please. "Of course, my Lady," he said, and then quickly looked to his wife. "If Her Grace would permit."

  
Sansa, though clearly agitated, smiled softly and nodded. "Of course," she repeated. Cat could hear the steel to her tone. "It is in our best interests after all, Lord husband."

.  
.

With Lord Harry gone, Sansa turned quickly on her sister. "Are you deliberately trying to have my new husband killed?"

  
If it weren't for the absolute severity of her elder sister's expression, Cat would have thought it a jest. "You love him then?" Cat returned, pointedly ignoring the ridiculous question.  
Sansa turned from her, arms crossing across herself. "It does not matter if I love him, you fool." Spinning around she shook her head at Cat. "I don't yet have an heir by him, Arya," she spat. "Without a son, I have no say over this place personally. And to get that I need him alive until I conceive."

  
Cat blinked, brows raising in surprise. "You've thought his death through then." Was all she said.

  
Sansa laughed mirthlessly. "Wouldn't you have?"

  
Cat nodded, shrugging; accepting. "Yes, I suppose so."

  
Sansa mimicked the movement. "I can't have him going to war just yet," she said, seating herself by the window. Cat sat down beside her. "I can't lose the position I've only just gained."  
  
Cat frowned. "But you're The Queen-"  
  
Sansa held up a hand. "Not yet," she interrupted firmly. "Not without his backing and army I'm not."  
  
At that, Cat went quiet. Softly, then, "Her Grace, Queen Daenerys could-"  
  
Her sister shook her head quickly, interrupting again before she could finish her offer. Rude. "I will not place myself in someone else's debt by asking for an army, Arya." Sansa said, and Cat grimaced at the thought.  
Cat did not know her sister, and the same could be said of Sansa; but Cat did know that she wanted Robb's rightful heir ruling the North, not some Bolton bastard.  
They sat in silence for what felt like an age, and Cat fought the urge to fidget. She wondered if her sister would snap out a reprimand as she used to do when they were children, if Cat did.  
  
"I will have to ride out with Lord Hardyng."  
  
"You will."  
Cat slid her eyes carefully to her sister. "You will not be joining me," she ventured softly, dejectedly. "Will you?"  
  
Sansa's face is a familiar mask of calm; Cat pulled it over her features often enough. "I won't."  
  
Cat scowled. "Her Grace would appreciate the effort, sister." she reminded her tersely.  
  
"Perhaps," her sister returned. "But with my Lord husband not at his seat I shall have to stay and rule in his stead. You will represent the North until such a time as I can do so myself."  
  
Standing, the scowl remained on Cat's face despite herself. "And if I do not wish to?"  
  
"I am your Queen," Sansa stated, steel to her voice. "As well as your blood. You will do what is best for our family, Arya. You have so far at least."  
  
With a tilt of her head, Cat conceded that her sister had a point. "The very least you could do is write to her."  
  
Sansa nodded. "I'll write ahead of you to tell her my husband will be coming in my stead," she replied. "And I shall send a letter along with you to deliver for her."  
  
Cat nodded as well. Cat would have to write to Lord Edmure herself, as it was. "Of course."

.  
.

Cat often wondered how she ended up alone with the bastard on so many occasions.  
  
Tonight though, they sat upon his bunk with the rest of the men in their party asleep around them. Cat had requested to stay with the soldiers assigned to her, and her sister-brow raised in surprise-had agreed, however unwillingly.  
  
The waterskin-since filled with appropriated wine-sat between them both. Cat was well and truly on her way to getting drunk.  
  
"I haven't had wine in a very long while," she whispered to him. "It's-I miss rum already."  
  
That startled a laugh out of him, which he quickly turned into a soft rush of breath. Taking the wine from her, he took a swig.  
  
The bastard looked thoughtful for a moment.  
  
"What is it?" Cat asked softly, a brow raised in the dim of the room.  
  
At his confused look she shook her head. "You look like you're in pain when you're thinking," she supplied, a laugh stuck somewhere in her chest. "It's the same as when you were littler."  
  
He looked as if he wanted to comment on that, and Cat would have welcomed it. Instead he said, "This wine is stolen, isn't it?"  
  
Cat grinned slyly in response, and moved to take it from him. The bastard held his arm up and away from her limited reach.  
  
Him and his stupidly long, strong arms. Cat was tempted to bite the nearest offending limb, but reasoned that Sansa would be appalled.  
  
"Gimme the wine, Ser Waters," she slurred slightly, trying desperately to keep the giddiness she felt from her face.  
  
The bastard only grinned back, features slanting and the tilt of his strong jaw simply saying, 'Make me'.  
  
Perhaps it was the wine, and perhaps it was simply her being very stupid.  
  
Cat lunged for the wine, only to have him move it further away with a huff of air leaving his lungs as she all but sat on top of him.  
  
If Cat were a more respectable woman, perhaps she would've been embarrassed, would've apologised hastily and backed away all the way back to her bed. Cat wasn't though, and with the bastard frozen beneath her, she proudly snatched the wine from his stiff fingers and sat back down beside him.  
  
The shock not completely gone from his reddened face, he murmured, "Well that was unlady-like."  
  
Cat snorted and drank from the skin. "What's it matter if the wine is stolen anyways," she said after a beat, shuffling on the bed until her knee bumped his thigh. "It's my sister's castle."  
  
The bastard hummed at that, took the opportunity. "Which is why you shouldn't be sitting on my bed drinking wine."  
  
Cat rolled her eyes, tilting her head. "You're drinking with me."  
  
"Makes it worse."  
  
The urge to smack him then was strong; Cat was actually enjoying herself and he was being ridiculously honourable.  
  
So she did; Cat sat the wine skin down and close-fist hit him on his arm. The most offended look passed over his features and Cat laughed too loudly, quickly clapping a hand over her mouth.  
  
One of the men stirred and muttered to himself, causing both she and the bastard to freeze in their antics.  
When the man settled once more into sleep, they let out a collective breath.  
  
"You shouldn't be over here," the bastard started again, nudging her knee. "Your sister would have my head if she thought-"  
  
"Thought what?" Cat cut in, shifting closer to better look at his face. "You didn't care all that much when I first sat down."  
  
"Yes, well, it's late now, m'lady."  
  
Blinking, Cat caught how red his face was and bit her lip. "Oh."  
  
She desperately hoped the blush rising from her neck was the product of the wine. He took the wine from her loose grip and Cat blinked, quickly looking anywhere but him.  
  
Then, because she apparently just didn't know when to shut up when drunk, "You're a prude, Gendry Waters."  
  
He nearly spat out the wine. "Am not."  
  
Cat snorted. "I don't understand why you'd think Sansa'd care all that much," she stated, shaking her head. "We slept together a heap of times before."  
  
"That isn't how I meant it, and you know that."  
  
Cat did know that. She supposed that perhaps she should've seen this one coming. Attraction was not a new concept to her; she'd liked Lanna well enough for a few years now, and taken to her bed more than a few times since.  
  
But this, what was between her and the bastard now, still held the echoes of their childhood.  
  
He held still under her as she moved closer, bracing her weight with a hand on his chest and another on his knee. Cat could feel the warmth of him through the rough tunic he wore, could feel his heart hammering away at how close she was.  
  
Flicking her eyes up she saw his glance down at her lips.  
  
The wine forgotten, the bastard heaved in a breath. "Arya-"  
  
Cat slanted her mouth over his and felt his swift, shaky, exhale of air. His half-grown beard scratched against the smooth skin of her face, but his lips were soft compared to her own chapped ones.  
  
It felt nice when his hands came up to frame her face, and Cat let out half a laugh when she pulled away and he followed.  
  
"You meant like this?" Her voice was childish to her own ears, but Gendry only rolled his eyes in return.  
  
Cat quickly kissed the look away.  
  
Hand still buried in her unkempt hair, he murmured against her temple, "Go to bed, m'lady."  
  
Cat grinned, moving further back into his bunk. The groan he gave was one of long-suffering.  
  
"I meant your bed, Arya."  
  
Cat shrugged, pulling him down to lie with her, much to his chagrin. "Oh come off it, Gendry," she muttered, taking in his rapidly reddening face. "It is not as if I'm going to steal your honour in the night."  
  
There was just enough room for the there to be a somewhat respectable gap between the two of them. "Besides," she continued, eyes drooping. "It's cold and you're warm, so I'm not moving."  
  
With that she closed her eyes.

.  
.

Upon opening her eyes, Cat found that she was surrounded by warmth and had a horrible head ache.  
  
Blinking a few times, she wriggled around until she was facing Gendry, who murmured as she did so. The arm across her waist was heavy, but surprisingly not unwelcome.  
  
With sleep cloaking his features he looked younger; the seriousness leeched from his brow and mouth. Cat had half the mind to trace the faint scar running along his jaw when she came back to herself.  
  
Love-sick fool, she chided. Don't embarrass yourself.  
  
Gendry's eyes snapped open with a start when Lord Harry marched in, getting everyone up and ready for the long ride south.  
Cat's good-brother either didn't see her, or chose to ignore the decidedly compromising position she was in.  
  
After a moment, Cat sat up and practically crawled over Gendry to get to her boots and cloak the next bed over.  
  
There was a grunt when her knee connected with his sternum, and Cat let out an off hand, "Sorry" which was rewarded with an eye roll.  
Apparently last night had not changed much between them.  
  
Except that before she could slip out the door, the bastard pressed a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth when no one was looking.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to go over the last few chapters once I've access to my laptop again bc screw editing this on mobile  
> Anyway, ciao!


	12. Chapter 12

The King's Road was full of noise; the Knights of The Vale chattering amongst themselves on the way to King's Landing.   
Cat rocked in her saddle, eyes closed as she let the mare follow her good-brother's horse. Listening.   
Cat could hear Gendry beside her conversing with one of the bloodriders, his voice deep and smooth. Cat could hear the horses as they heaved in lungfuls of air and moved along the muddied path.  
And there, faintly, a soft bark and a returned yip. Cat opened her eyes to see Gendry pausing in his conversation. He glanced over at her worriedly.  
"Was that-"  
Cat nodded. "A wolf? Yes, I believe it was."  
Though there were no more noises from the trees, Cat knew the monstrous pack from her dreams were still present; watching and waiting.  
Gendry seemed to reason that as well, and til they set up camp near a stream that night, had a constant eye on the tree line.

Tethering her horse, Cat moved over to where Gendry and the two bloodriders were situated.   
The other men were decidedly wary of Lady Sansa's sister's men, and for a well enough reason. One was huge and barely spoke, and the other two were young and foreign.   
Cat kicked debris from beside Gendry's sleeping roll and threw hers down. Her-Companion? Lover?-friend didn't bother to argue that time and instead only rolled his eyes at her.   
"M'lady."  
Cat nodded with a grin. "Ser."  
"Khaleesi will be pleased with your sister's aid," the younger bloodrider, Daggo, said. "It shows your loyalty."  
Cat nodded. "The only way to win this war is together," she gave back in the same tongue. "And I do not plan for us to lose."  
Daggo nodded as well, before turning back to the fire. "This is good," he said, the common tongue stilted on his lips. He floundered for a moment, and Shakir murmured something to him. "Will... Win."  
Cat smiled at him, pleased he'd said his part. Daggo murmured a soft goodnight before turning back to his sleeping roll.  
He was asleep as soon as his head his the soft leather. Cat envied him for that.  
Cat glanced away, eyes landing on Gendry's still form.   
Her constant companion was not asleep yet though; his eyes dark and staring into the clear night sky.  
Sliding into her makeshift bed, Cat rested her chin in the crook of her elbow. "Can't sleep?" She asked, eyes intent on what little she could make out of Gendry's face. His shoulders rose and fell with a quiet creak of leather and cloth.

"We camped here. Once."  
Cat opened her eyes at that, tiredness clinging to the edges of her vision. "Pardon?"  
Gendry turned his face towards her, eyes clear and yet seeing memories. "Just before Yoren was killed. When the Gold Cloaks came."  
The memory should have come to her, and yet it was blank. Nothing rang true with her, as the expression on his face urged her to.   
Cat shook her head. "I don't remember," she said in a murmur. "I don't remember much from in between King's Landing and the Salt Pans."  
"That's a good thing then, I suppose."   
Cat yawned, and stretched her thin limbs. "I remember you and Hotpie squeezing me between the two of you so no one could touch me when we slept." Cat shrugged, closing her eyes again. "I wonder whatever happened to that boy."  
Gendry was silent, and Cat assumed he was sleeping.   
Next she knew, in any case, Cat was dreaming.  
The snow fell before her eyes, and her breath billowed in heaving clouds as she ran through the trees.   
The swollen river roared in her ears; her littler cousins moved around her, quiet and afraid.  
Men with their horses had stopped for the night nearby, and the forest had once again become still around them.  
And there, intermingled with other smells and the stench of horses, was a scent that tickled the back of her mind, she should know this smell, she thought.  
Abstractly, Arya knew it was herself she was smelling and hearing, that this was more than a dream.  
Arya could see herself, curled up beside Gendry, her face buried in her elbow as she lay on her stomach.  
And then, Arya saw herself as she had once been; a slip of a girl-child, long-haired and a dirtied face.  
She had seemed tall to Nymeria then, as a pup; tall and all knowing and safe.  
But now, as the direwolf stalked the edge of the trees, she wasn't so sure the smell matched the two-legged she saw now.   
Nymeria moved up slowly, quiet as a mouse, to where her mistress lay, her belly almost touching the ground.  
The she-wolf came to a stop, and faintly, Arya could feel the warmth of her breath upon her cheek, and pulled herself away from the dream.  
There was a shout, Nymeria startled, and Cat opened her eyes.


End file.
